Peter and Anja: First Love
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: REWORKED AND EXPANDED. After three years as a POW, Peter Newkirk has a bad case of hero worship for his CO. Then he meets Anja, the niece of veterinarian Oskar Schnitzer, and sparks fly. As Anja enters into life as an Underground agent, Peter is forced to mature and confront the meaning of honor, duty, courage and love.
1. Prologue: Spring in the Air

_Dear Readers, This story has been reworked to flow from a more recent story, __A Minor Problem__. Every chapter has been revised, either a lot or a little, since this story was originally published in 2019. More chapters will be coming during July 2020 and I hope to finish up by the end of the month._

_Newkirk in this story is based on a concept by Valashu, who was interested in what it would be like if Newkirk signed up for the RAF when he was underage. So in this story, he is 18, and has been a POW for three years. He also a very bad stutter as he does on the German-dubbed version of Hogan's Heroes._

_I know it's an unconventional take on the character, but I hope you will give it a try and please read and review. Your reviews help me get better. On AO3 there will be additional "missing scenes" and stories that aren't suitable for Fanfiction dot net. The broader story there is called __Coming of Age: Peter Newkirk's Journey__._

_Thanks for reading this far!_

_~~ Grace._

**PETER AND ANJA: PROLOGUE, Spring in the Air**

**March 20, 1944**

On a late spring afternoon in the kitchen of his farmhouse, Oskar Schnitzer was on the phone with his single most irritating customer.

"Ja, Ja, Kommandant Klink, I understand it is inconvenient, but it has to be done once a year. Unless you want to risk having a kennel full of rabid dogs, I suppose. You don't? No, I didn't think so. Rabies and distemper shots. For all the dogs, yes. Twelve, Herr Kommandant. There are twelve there now, yes. Tomorrow would be ideal. The weather is expected to be fine. We'll be there in the morning. I'll have my assistant with me."

Oskar Schnitzer hung up the telephone and turned to his wife and niece. "He never makes it easy. I think he's afraid of the dogs himself," he sighed. "In any event, we're all set for our rendezvous at the Luft Stalag tomorrow. Anja can meet the team. Mathilde, my love, before Otto finished up work, could you ask him to be sure to radio Papa Bear tonight? Let him know Anja and I will be there mid-morning."

"Of course," his wife replied. "Do we have a code name for her yet?"

Schnitzer stroked his chin and smiled thoughtfully as he looked at the girl. Anja was his late sister's only surviving child, and she had a sweet, gentle nature. Though she grew up in Wiesbaden, she had spent every summer on the family farm near Hammelburg, tumbling through the meadows after her older cousins and never having a bit of difficulty keeping up with Oskar and Mathilde's unruly brood of boys. How could she possibly be twenty now, he wondered as he looked at her with obvious affection. And how could two of his four boys already have perished in this godforsaken war?

"Lämmchen," Schnitzer said decisively. "Lambkin in English, but we should use the German."

"Uncle!" Anja protested with a smile. "Are you intent on embarrassing me? I told you to stop calling me that when I was eight!"

"Six," Schnitzer corrected her. "You were eight before you finally wore me down."

"No one will know it was your uncle's pet name for you," Mathilde said with a sparkle in her eye. "I must catch Otto before he leaves," she said of the resident farmhand and jack-of-all-trades. "Lämmchen it is," she said as she headed out of the kitchen door.

Anja was shaking her head and laughing. "Like _das Lämmchen und das Fischchen_, that horrid story you used to read to me, Uncle Oskar!"

"That was awful, wasn't it? A little girl and boy, playing merrily together when they're turned into animals by a wicked stepmother," Schnitzer said. "The Brothers Grimm is a very accurate name for the authors of such _grimmig_ stories." He suddenly looked serious. "You're certain you're prepared for this, Anja, dear? There are risks."

"Some risks are worth taking, Uncle," she said softly. "I can do my part."

"Very well. Tomorrow you will meet Papa Bear's team. All very good men, I assure you. There's one young man who I think would be ideal for our mission, which will take place the next night. The decision will be up to Papa Bear, but I suspect he will agree with my recommendation."

"A young man," Anja said, rolling her eyes. "Is he going to boss me around?"

"No, not this one. But he will play his part very well. His name is Peter, and there are a few things I should tell you about him."


	2. Chapter 1: A Sight for Sore Eyes

**PETER AND ANJA: CHAPTER 1, A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES**

She was a twenty-year-old college girl, the niece of Oskar Schnitzer, and Peter Newkirk fell for her hard.

Anja Blankmeier had golden brown hair, clear blue eyes, a petite figure, and a bright look about her. Home from her course of studies in medicine at the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich for the two-month long break between lectures, she was helping her Uncle Oskar mostly with farm calls. But on an unseasonably warm morning in early March 1944, with a dozen dogs to vaccinate at Stalag 13, Uncle Oskar brought her along to help. Peter was lolling against Barracks 2 when the veterinarian's truck rolled in and Oskar helped the young girl out.

The arrival of any young woman at Stalag 13 was such a rarity that it was bound to draw stares and wolf whistles. But the men respected Schnitzer and no one dared to let out a sound when Anja stepped into the yard and looked around. Dressed in a flowing, short sleeved, robin's egg blue sundress specked with tiny yellow and red flowers, wearing a pair of red shoes, with her sunny brown hair tucked back in braids laced with ribbons, she was a walking rainbow in a dreary gray POW camp.

Louis LeBeau, standing beside Peter, smiled with delight to see the girl; he'd heard from Hogan that she was coming. He let his eyes follow her as she walked confidently to the dog's pen carrying her uncle's medical bag. Lovely, lovely, Louis thought, but of course much too young for him.

Peter, on the other hand, simply gaped. It had been a long time since he had been in the presence of a pretty young girl. He watched her with intense interest, noticing the glint of the sun on her hair and the swoosh of her skirt across her bottom as she walked. It didn't take much to make him respond. Louis noticed, shook his head, and gave Peter an affectionate bump of the elbow.

"Like what you see, eh?" Louis whispered. "A young lady would do you a lot of good."

Peter stubbed out his cigarette and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Leave off. It's not as if I'm getting anywhere near 'er," he said. "But she is easy on the eyes, ain't she? Wouldn't mind a little petting time with 'er in this ruddy zoo." He fiddled in his pockets until Louis elbowed him again.

"Pierre! Behave yourself," he said, scowling at his eighteen-year-old friend's manipulations until Peter withdrew his hands from his pockets with a guilty look on his face. "Be good, imbecile," Louis joked. "No nice girl wants to see that. Calm yourself first, and we'll go meet her," he instructed.

"Close mmmmy eyes and think of England. Right," Peter answered. With some effort, he willed his bulge away, nodded to Louis, and set off across the compound with him.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Tierarzt," Louis greeted Schnitzer. By now, Hogan and Schultz had arrived on the scene—Hogan leaning in for a chat with Schnitzer while Schultz fawned over the young lady.

"Hmmmph," Schnitzer replied, acting annoyed at the intrusion from Louis and Peter while acknowledging them warmly with his eyes.

"I see you have brought your new assistant. Bonjour, Mademoiselle, my name is Louis LeBeau," Louis greeted Anja. Peter stood shyly behind him, shifting from foot to foot. Hogan noticed and smiled. He knew Peter to be a confident, capable and even cocky soldier, and it amused him no end to see him looking bashful.

Anja smiled broadly at LeBeau, and shook his hand, exchanging pleasantries. Hogan, in his classic fashion, gazed into her eyes, exuding charm. "Welcome to our humble Stalag, Anja. I hope we'll be seeing more of you."

But it was the young man behind Louis who had caught her eye. She peeked around Louis, seeing a shy boy with a slight build, hair just a little darker than her own, with the same golden streaks, and a remarkable pair of wide, almond shaped green eyes. "And who is this?" she asked playfully.

Louis pushed Peter around in front of him. "Allow me to introduce mon pote, Mademoiselle," Louis said. He pulled Peter by the elbow. "Pierre, say hello to Anja."

Peter stepped forward and smiled, but the words would not follow. "Nice to meet you, mmmmmm," he said, making an attempt at Miss. "Mmmmmm." Stuck again, he berated himself. So he tried another tactic. "Fr-Fraulein Anja. Mmmmy name is P-P-P-P-P-P-P-Peter. And definitely not Pierre," he added with a grin and a wave of the hand at LeBeau.

Her soft hand took his, and squeezed it gently, as if to say she wasn't surprised by his hesitant speech. In fact, she wasn't because her uncle had told her that the boy named Peter was one of the most talented men in Hogan's crew, but unfortunately, Er stottert sehr.

"Well, Peter, it is very nice to meet you too. How long have you been a prisoner here?" Anja inquired.

Peter was starting to answer, but Schultz cut in. "Fraulein, I'm sorry, but I can't let you socialize with the prisoners. Oberst Klink – he would have my head!" But he leaned conspiratorially toward her. "Newkirk has been here almost three years, and he is a very nice and clever boy when he isn't up to monkey business." He winked at Peter, who surprised Schultz and Hogan—but not LeBeau—by blushing in response. He was trying to make a good impression on the girl, and so far it wasn't going well.

In a second, Hogan was at Peter's side with an arm around his waist. "Us? Monkey business? That's not fair, Schultz! We're doing our best to be model prisoners. Isn't that right, Newkirk?" He pulled the Englishman closer, and his fingers pressing into his waist. Hogan had been appointed Peter's guardian by British authorities more than a year earlier when it was discovered that he had joined the RAF before he was of age. They had always been close, but over time Peter had begun to look at Hogan as his father, and Hogan most definitely saw him as a son.

Anja just laughed at Hogan's wit, tipping her head back and looking delightful and unguarded. Enchanted by the sight, Peter gazed with his mouth half open and began to feel a tingle. Hogan saw the look on his face, glanced a little lower, sighed inwardly, then surreptitiously dug his fingers deeper into Peter's waist, causing him to jump. Focus, Corporal, was the clear message. The team couldn't afford for any member to be distracted in that way. Not here, not now. He could have a few minutes alone later to get it out of his system.

Anja set off to vaccinate the dogs, with Louis and Peter trailing behind to help her identify each animal by name from a respectful distance so she could make accurate records. Though Peter had always been terrified of dogs, because he was never around them while growing up in London, Louis was skilled at dealing with them. He had shown Peter how to befriend them and helped him conquer his fear. Now Peter was enjoying showing off what he knew about them to Anja as Louis stood by beaming like a proud older brother. He was amused by Peter's capacity for sudden, deep obsession. A crush on Anja would be a lot healthier for him in the long run than his schoolboy infatuation with his CO. Even if Peter didn't see it in those terms, it was pretty obvious to Louis.

Schnitzer, meanwhile, was having a word with Hogan. "We will need Newkirk's stealthy skills for the handoff," he was saying. "I've already told Anja about him, and she will work with him. They can both pass for young students."

Hogan was nodding, but inside he was worried. He wasn't sure he wanted Peter getting too cozy with any girl. Not while they had a mission to fulfill.

* * *

**The idea that Newkirk is very young and was underage when he enlisted was the brainchild of my collaborator, Valashu, and is central problem of our story "A Minor Problem." In that story, in March of 1943, Hogan is named guardian to Newkirk as a condition for allowing him to remain in Stalag 13 until he turns 18 in December. THIS story was written more than a year before "A Minor Problem," but it hit me that the two stories fit together really well and I've made minor changes in this one to knit the two stories together.**


	3. Chapter 2:Getting Ready

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 2: GETTING READY**

Back in the barracks that evening, Louis was serving a hearty meal of beef and barley soup. No one understood how he managed to stretch their meager supplies into something so delicious, but time after time he amazed them with stick-to-your-ribs creations.

Hogan was sitting next to Peter, who was unusually quiet, appearing to day dream as he ate his meal. He wasn't the only one to notice.

"Boy, you've been awful quiet, Newkirk," Sergeant Andrew Carter said. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"Isn't it obvious?" LeBeau teased. "Anja, Anja, Anja. I think that's all I've heard from you since this morning," he told Peter. "Is your hand under the table again? That's enough of that!" he teased, to ripples of laughter.

Hogan turned and gave Peter a skeptical look, which had the desired effect of turning LeBeau's admonition into an order. He'd already sent Peter into his quarters once today to allow him to release his energy. Of course, Hogan thought with a sly smile beginning to lift one corner of his mouth, he'd been just as bad once. The difference was that by the time he was Peter's age, young Robert was regularly enjoying—really enjoying—the company of girls. That was an opportunity Peter hadn't had in the confines of a POW camp. The poor kid had looked astonished at just the sight of a pretty girl, Hogan realized. What a way to grow up.

Caught in the act. Peter stopped his manipulations, shook his head, pushed his plate away, and reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette. Lighting up, he acted as nonchalant as possible. "You 'ave to admit, Louis, that was one good-lookin' bird. Even an old chap like you would be bound to notice." He grinned shamelessly. Game on.

"I prefer a more mature woman of at least 25, myself," Lebeau lobbed back. "I'll leave the little girls to you, _mon pote_."

"And I'll take 'em, every single one," Peter responded. "Us younger lads 'ave staying power, you know. You mmmight remember that from way back when, old man."

LeBeau humpphed and waved his hand dismissively. "I think you're confusing speed and endurance, Pierre," he said. "Be kind. She is a lovely and proper girl." He was trying to instill his young friend with respect for women, and in an all-male atmosphere it was an uphill climb.

"A proper girl," Peter echoed, smiling. "That she is."

"How old is she anyway, Newkirk?" Carter asked.

"She is an older woman, Carter," LeBeau said. "Very impressive, _mon petit_," he added, with a sly nod to Newkirk, who grinned back. Peter had seven older sisters and fancied himself a budding expert on women.

"Right. She just turned twenty, Schnitzer said," Hogan put in. "That makes her fair game for you and Peter, Carter. But the rest of you guys stay the hell away." He stopped. "Oh, what am I saying? ALL of you stay away. We're not a dating service."

Hogan shook his head slightly as he looked at Peter. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a case of puppy love; the intensity and the inevitable heartbreak was something he remembered all too well, and he'd already had Carter's breakup with Mary Jane on his watch. Peter would be even more challenging, he suspected.

"It's all right. Carter doesn't stand a chance anyway. Sorry, mate, but that bird's made her mind up about me," Peter gloated. "It's beyond my power to control this magnetic effect I have on women," he added, stretching his hands apart in a gesture of helpless bewilderment.

He wasn't getting away with that. In a split second, Kinch had Peter in a headlock and Carter was overpowering him with tickles. Soon everyone was roaring with laughter. And Peter had hardly stuttered at all, Louis noticed with satisfaction. Good sign.

**XXX**

That night after supper, orders were issued for the next day's mission. Peter and Hogan would slip out of the tunnel after rollcall to meet Anja in Hammelburg. Peter and Anja were to be dressed as young members of the Hitler Youth and the _Bund Deutscher Mädel_, respectively. Their contacts were the adult leaders of the local chapters, Herr Heinz Witman and his wife Frau Berthe Witman. The Witmans had intercepted plans for a new munitions armory to be located 15 kilometers north of Hammelburg, and were eager to pass them along to the Allies.

Peter had pinched a brown Hitler Youth jacket with four pockets on a previous trip to Hammelburg and he spent the night tailoring it to fit his frame. By morning, with considerable grumbling, he was fashioning the remaining pieces: a black neckerchief and a detestable pair of black shorts. Olsen was in charge of rounding up some gray or white knee socks and marching boots to complete the ensemble, and had slipped into Hammelburg to see what he could pilfer.

"How are your shorts coming along, Newkirk?" Hogan asked on the morning of the mission as he went over the plan with his core team in his office.

"Fine. But Sir, I protest. I haven't b-been in shorts since I was thirteen," Peter complained loudly.

"Wow, that's practically a lifetime ago for you—five whole years!" Carter joked.

Peter shot him a look and snapped, "Almost six years! I'm eighteen and a half!"

"Actually, you're eighteen and a quarter," Andrew thought as he bit his lip, but he Managed to hold that thought. "Seriously, I can't believe you wore shorts until you were thirteen, Peter," he prattled on. "Gosh, I think I got my long pants when I was three, and that was that, other than having some cut-offs to run around in on hot summer days. Of course you needed long pants to work on a farm. 'Cuz otherwise you'd be slashing your legs on fences and thorns and threshers and …"

Hogan cut him off. "Short pants until eight or ten is pretty typical for American city boys, Carter, but Europeans wear shorts a few years longer, and the Hitler Youth wear them until they're eighteen," he said. He turned to Newkirk and remembered him eight years earlier as a sprout. "Thirteen, huh? You really were a late bloomer, Newkirk," he joked. Hogan knew perfectly well that Peter was a late bloomer; he'd had his pocket picked by the little boy on a London street when Peter was only ten, and he barely looked seven then. Poverty and malnutrition had a way of doing that.

"Leave off," Peter answered with a sour expression. "Sir," he added apologetically. "I always got my cousins' old clothes after the knees were worn out, until Mavis finally decided it was time I had long trousers of me own. I'll wear the bloody shorts, but I'm on rrrrrecord as saying this is ridiculous and unfair." He had in fact been a very late bloomer, and it was a sore point with him. He was quite small at thirteen, and gawky when he enlisted at fourteen, making it a ruddy miracle his lie had been believed. But he had caught up nicely, thank you very much.

"All right. Newkirk, you're Arno Becker, and you're sixteen years old," Hogan was recounting. "Anja will be your sister Liesel, and she's almost fifteen. Your papa is posted in Berlin, but you've just settled here in Hammelburg with your mother to avoid the bombings in the capital. You have sisters who are twelve and nine and a little brother who's five, and you're enrolling at the Frobenius Gymnasium when classes resume after Easter. In the meantime, you're trying to meet other Hitler Youth and _Deutscher Mädel."_

"Fine. Who are you, then?" Peter asked with a sullen expression and crossed arms. Without even trying, he was doing an excellent impression of an adolescent, Hogan thought with a grin.

"I'm your dear Uncle Willi," Hogan said, with a shade too much amusement in his voice for Peter's liking. "I drove you and Liesel here from Berlin to stay with Aunt Marta and Uncle Klaus after Mama and the little ones arrived by train. I got my hip shot up in the last war, so I'll be limping around. I'll need a little gray in my hair, LeBeau. OK, a lot of gray."

"_Oui, mon Colonel_," Louis replied with a smile. "Pierre has been doing his best to give you some gray naturally, but these things take time." Peter swatted at Louis, but missed and slapped Carter instead as the Frenchman ducked.

"Oh, and one other thing, Newkirk? Those sideburns you're trying to grow are going to have to go," Hogan added. Peter groaned and dropped his head into his hand.

XXX

At 7 P.M., after the final evening rollcall, Peter emerged from his sewing room for an inspection, looking every inch the Hitler Youth. His uniform was a perfect fit, but the crowning touch was his hair.

Shaving off the little thatch of sideburns he'd managed to grow made him look younger than his eighteen years. His hair was slicked back off his face. Earlier in the afternoon, Louis had taken his clippers out and pushed for performing a severe undercut to complete the Hitler Youth look, but thankfully Hogan had nixed that. Hogan told LeBeau he could explain away Newkirk's missing sideburns by saying he had insisted on adherence to military grooming regulations. But if Newkirk turned up at rollcall with his head shaved tight at the sides and long on top, even Klink would be able to connect the dots. LeBeau had to settle for a short-back-and-sides cut, a couple shades tighter than Newkirk's preferred length.

Peter's head was down and his hands were thrust deep in his pockets as he appeared before his friends. Carter and Kinch stifled a laugh, but LeBeau tried a different tack. "You did a splendid job on the uniform, _mon pote_," he told Peter. "How do the boots feel?"

"Too bloody b-big," Newkirk muttered as he pulled up a gray knee sock. Olsen had done his best, but he came back with shoes that were a size too large for Peter. LeBeau had stuffed the toe of each boot with a wad of newspaper, but they still felt like clown shoes on Peter's feet. "Why mmmmust every st-stupid thing happen to me?"

Hogan appeared next, dressed in flannel trousers, a vest, and a tweed jacket, his hair shot through with gray. With his bushy mustache and spectacles, he looked like a college professor, exactly according to plan.

"Come along, Arno, let's go find your sister," Hogan told Peter, falling right into character.

"Ja, Onkel Willi," Peter replied sullenly as he headed up the ladder, but not before Kinch shouted, "Be a good boy tonight, Arno, and listen to Onkel."

Peter gave an "up yours" two-fingered salute in reply, and off he went.

* * *

**This chapter mentions the first meeting between Peter Newkirk and Robert Hogan. This encounter is first described in "A Minor Problem," Chapter 20, but it takes a while for Hogan and Newkirk to realize their connection. It took place in the spring of 1936, when Captain Robert E. Hogan was a 27-year-old West Point graduate assigned to the U.S. Embassy in London. Peter was a very small, very wily 10 year old scam artist and pickpocket. **


	4. Chapter 3: The Mission

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 3: THE MISSION**

Schnitzer picked Hogan and Peter up in his van on a road a mile from camp. They piled in, with Hogan up front with the Tierarzt and Peter in back next to Anja. In the dim light, Peter could see her skin glow, but her clothes were so dull compared to the vibrant colors she wore on her visit to the camp. The _Bund Deutscher Mädel _uniform of a white blouse, long blue skirt, and black neckerchief didn't do anyone's looks any favors, nor was it supposed to.

"Hello, Peter," Anja said softly as Peter slid on the seat.

"Good evening, Anja, it's good to sssss, ssssee you again," he replied politely as Anja's slipped her hand over his. It was cool and soft as it rested on the back of his hand. He longed to hold her hand, to run his fingers over her palm and caress her slender arm, but he was frozen. And he was embarrassed; he had just hissed at the girl like a bleeding asp. Why had he answered in English?

From the front, Hogan's voice was firm. "Arno and Liesel. You have to stay in character all night and you might as well start now. Peter, that starts with speaking Deutsch only." He looked back and saw Anja's hand covering Peter's. "And you're brother and sister." His voice was a little harsher than he intended, so he added, "Sorry kids, but you need to act like it."

Anja took her hand off Peter's and smiled tightly until Hogan turned away. Then she giggled, and Peter did too.

"What is that sound I hear? The laughter of Deutschland's future?" Hogan said gruffly, before breaking into a chuckle himself. That lightened the mood immediately, and Peter and Anja relaxed and chatted happily, with Peter speaking fluent and fluid German.

**XXX**

Uncle Willi escorted his two young charges into the Town Hall for the 8 pm Hitler Youth Rally and social hour. He scanned the room to find the Witmans, and quietly pointed them out to Arno. Then he clapped his young nephew on the back, kissed his niece, and instructed them to meet outside in an hour.

The rally was crowded and boisterous. Arno and Liesel tried hard to stick together, but in short order their team leaders came through, ordering boys to one side of the room and girls to the other. Arno, completely unencumbered by Peter's stutter, entertained the other boys with outrageous stories of dodging British and American bombs in Berlin and pointed remarks about which girls were the prettiest. Across the room, Liesel was quickly surrounded by the other girls of fourteen and fifteen, who were happy to see a new face in their midst and to get all the details on her handsome brother.

"Arno has wonderful eyes," swooned Gerta, one of Liesel's new friends. "How old is here?"

"He turned sixteen in December," Liesel replied. "I'll introduce you to him later."

Herr Witman, a History teacher at the Gymnasium, had just delivered a rousing lecture on the importance of discipline and purity. As he left the stage, he found Arno's face in the crowd and beckoned to him. "Uh, oh," said Martin, one of the boys Arno had fallen in with. "Herr Witman wants you. That's can't be good!"

"What did I do?" Arno asked. He grinned. "Was it something we said about the girls?" The boys had been huddled together, trading notes on which girls looked likeliest to make themselves… available after the party broke up. Arno squared his shoulders and made a brave show of going off to face Herr Witman as the other boys laughed.

"That is enough, young man!" Herr Witman said as he grabbed Arno by the scruff of his neck. "German maidens are exemplars of purity! You will apologize!" He hauled him off to side hallway to discipline him further.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Arno said in English. Herr Witman shushed him and looked around anxiously.

"Don't take stupid chances, boy," Herr Witman said. Arno looked meekly at him. "All right, all right. Just don't slip again. I have a package for you, but it won't be easy to retrieve."

"Try me," Arno said. He did love a challenge.

**XXX**

The package, it turned out, was a large brown envelope that was tucked away inside the Burgermeister's office. The Burgemeister, who happened to be Herr Witman's elder brother, another member of the resistance, and had told Herr Witman he had the item under lock and key. "Make it look like a break-in," he had warned.

Arno's eyes went wide as Herr Witman explained the challenge. "That's it?" he asked. He shook his head. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Arno extracted his lock picks—Peter's lock picks—from one of the front pockets of his jacket. He had the door to the Burgermeister's office open in seconds as Herr Witman looked on in amazement. Just as he cracked it open, however, one of the Hitler Youth team leaders came down the hall, looking for him.

"Oh, there you are, Herr Witman! We're ready for the sing-a-long," said young Karl, a gymnasium boy just a shade older than Arno. "What…. What are you doing in the Burgemeister's office?"

"Teaching Arno here a lesson!" Herr Witman said. "We keep a paddle in the Burgemeister's office." He looked at Arno. "That will teach you to make lascivious comments about young German womanhood!" he warned Arno. "Do you care to witness this, Karl?"

Uh-oh, Arno thought. Herr Witman seemed to be padding his part just a bit.

"Oh, no sir, no sir," Karl replied. He scurried off, reminding himself to keep his hormonal thoughts about the pretty new girl that Arno arrived with to himself.

Spared the paddle, Arno crowded into the Burgemeister's office with Herr Witman and fiddled with how to hide the large brown envelope on himself. Ultimately, they decided to tuck it into his shorts, just behind his back. "Keep your shirt tucked in tight, and it will stay put," Herr Witman said.

Arno didn't like it. It seemed a bit too obvious, and he thought it would be best if he and Leisel could leave soon. "We'll have to slip out now, Herr Witman," he told the Hitler Youth leader. "Let's see…"

"I'll paddle you and send you home," Herr Witman said decisively. "That will do the trick." He knew there was a paddle in here somewhere, and Karl would be expecting to see evidence that he had used it.

"No!" Arno protested, but Herr Witman was committed. "On the stage. You can be an example to all," he said, as he hauled the paddle out of a wardrobe.

"Are you mad?" Arno continued. But it was hopeless. Herr Witman pushed him along, and Peter was hauled up on the stage, denounced for lechery, and struck with twenty hard blows of a wooden and leather paddle to his bare legs before being released to his sister and sent packing.

**XXX**

Peter couldn't hide the pain in his eyes as he stumbled out into the courtyard and spied Hogan waiting for him.

Hogan approached him with a smile. "Got it?" he asked, expecting an enthusiastic yes.

Peter nodded as Anja clutched his arm. "Yes, it's in me bloody trousers," he said sourly. "I'll give it to you in the van."

Hogan knew something was wrong, but this wasn't the moment to address it. "Let's go," he said. "Schnitzer is parked around the corner."

As they approached the van, Anja climbed into the back and patted the seat for Peter to join her. He stood at the door, biting his lip and trying not to look weak. "Can't sit," he finally said.

"Why can't you sit?" Hogan asked in frustration. Peter was certainly acting odd. Then Hogan noticed how gingerly Peter was moving. "What's wrong" he asked. He took out a flashlight and inspected the back of Peter's legs. They were raw and bloody from the paddling.

"What the hell?" Hogan asked. "Who did this? Schnitzer, come look at this."

Schnitzer grimaced. "That idiot Witman paddled you, didn't he? He's renowned for that at the Gymnasium. You're right, you can't sit. Come, you'll need to lie across the seat."

Hogan and Schnitzer helped Peter into the large backseat of the van, lying on his side with his head on Anja's lap. Hogan patted his back. "I'm sorry, Newkirk. I had no idea this would happen."

"I know," Peter said in a muffled tone. "Let's just get back to the Stalag."

As they drove off, Anja stroked Peter's head. She could feel him trembling and, in the face of oncoming headlights, she could see a tear glisten on his cheek. She rubbed his back until he fell asleep.

As the car rumbled along, Hogan looked back at the youngsters in the rear seat. They looked awfully sweet together. Anja looked up at Hogan and smiled as she let her hand stroke Peter's neck while he slumbered. Hogan smiled, Peter was in good hands.

"Colonel Hogan," she said softly, "While Peter was with Herr Witman, Frau Witman gave me this." She handed the Colonel a small cylinder, which he shook. "A roll of film," Anja said.


	5. Chapter 4: Tête-à-Tête

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 4: ****T****ÊTE-****À-T****ÊTE**

"We'll stop at my house, Colonel Hogan," Schnitzer said. "I want to check those wounds and see what I can do."

Hogan consulted his watch. 2225 hours. It wasn't ideal to be out so late —the boys back at the camp hadn't planned on it—but they could radio Kinch. And chances were Schnitzer would be better stocked with medicines than Wilson was. The farm animals and dogs he tended on a daily basis were prized far more than POWs in Nazi Germany.

The car rumbled down the country lane that led to Schnitzer's farmhouse. His clinic was in back, separated from the main house by a covered walkway from the kitchen. As they pulled up to the house, Hogan hopped out of the front seat and opened the door of the van where Anja was seated. She looked up at him with anxious eyes. Peter was still dozing with his head in her lap as Hogan crouched down to wake him.

"Hey. We're at Schnitzer's," he said softly. "He wants to check you over."

Peter blinked and attempted to sit up, but he felt a stinging pain when the back of his legs contacted the leather seat. He flopped back down.

Hogan saw how hard it was for him and patted his back. "Wait a minute," he said. "We'll get you out."

Peter laid quietly as Anja stroked his head. "Why did Herr Witman have to do something so stupid?" she said. He could hear her voice shaking and knew right away she was crying. Oh, he couldn't have that.

He took her hand and held it gently. Then he took a deep breath, inhaling the starchy smell of Anja's crisply laundered skirt and a hint of perfume – was it jasmine and rose?

"He was striving for realism, I expect," Peter finally said, doing his best to sound strong and untroubled. "He wanted a way to get us out of there quickly and this must have been the first thing that came to his devious mind." Sick bastard, he thought. He'd had school masters who applied a cane or a paddle or beefy hand whenever a boy stepped out of line, and he'd been on the receiving end more times than he could count. No wonder he bloody well hated school.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Anja asked, playing with his hair.

Peter sighed. "It mmmmostly stings now. I've had www-worse, but it's going to be hard to sit d-down for a while."

At that moment, Hogan was at the passenger-side door in the back seat with Schnitzer's farmhand, Otto Marx. He was carrying a blanket.

"Otto's going to help me get you out, Newkirk," Hogan said. "We'll roll you on this blanket—that's right, belly down—and we can each grab an end and carry you inside. Mathilde is getting the clinic ready for you."

Schnitzer had treated Hogan's men before and Peter was one of his more frequent clients. His wife Mathilde, a porcelain-skinned lady of about 50 from Alsace-Lorraine, was a calm, soothing presence, always ready with a smile for Hogan's men. The men of Stalag 13 genuinely liked her, but not one could fathom how such a lovely lady had ended up with a grouch like Schnitzer for a husband.

In the clinic, Hogan and Otto lifted Peter onto an examining table with an assist from Schnitzer. He rolled up the legs of his shorts to examine the cuts left by the harsh punishment. "We'll have to take these down," he said.

"Not a bleeding chance," Peter growled. "It's bad enough I had to wear these things in the first place."

Hogan backed him up with a shake of his head. Peter was embarrassed enough. "Let's try it Peter's way," he said.

"All right, all right. I can manage," Schnitzer said, rolling the shorts as high as he could. "Mathilde, a bowl of warm water please," he ordered. "Anja, bring the iodine, and get the salve from the middle shelf. The yellow one, with _Ringelblume_ and _Gelbwurzel_." He saw Hogan's questioning look and searched his mind for the English words. "Marigold and … I think you say Goldenseal. We will apply sulfa first, but these are very useful herbs for healing wounds. I will send some back with you. LeBeau will know how to mix it."

Schnitzer was washing and debriding the wounds and Anja was observing carefully while Mathilde spoke softly into Peter's ear, hoping to keep him from squirming too much. She was telling him about the antics of the baby lambs and goats that had arrived in the spring. Although Peter was city-born, he had a soft spot for farm animals and was quite enamored of Mathilde. Hogan, meanwhile, was keeping his hands pressed down on Peter's calves to prevent him from pulling away as Schnitzer cleaned the wounds and applied the iodine.

"A few of these wounds are deep," Schnitzer was telling Hogan. "They should improve in a few days, but I need to put a few stitches in this one." He shook his head in disgust. "I'm going to have a talk with Witman. He must have been nervous, to get so carried away." He stitched one particularly ragged cut, then inspected his work and nodded. He put Mathilde to work applying sulfa directly to the wounds and sent Anja to the supply room for bandages. When she returned, he showed her how to apply the salve thickly to a layer of bandages before wrapping it onto Peter's leg. He sat down with Hogan, wiping his hands, as he watched his assistants tend the patient.

"I hope he's a quick healer. We will need him in a few days for another mission with Anja. This time," he added, looking intently at Hogan, "let's let him wear long trousers, eh?" He smiled broadly and Hogan laughed too.

"I'm so glad you two are having a grand time at my expense," Peter grumbled from the table. Schnitzer shook his head, stood, and went to inspect the progress. "All right, Anja, dear, I will just wrap these with a layer of gauze. Mathilde, perhaps some chamomile tea for our young friend here before we send him into the night."

"English tea would be better," Peter groused.

"A proper black English tea it shall be, then," Mathilde said fondly, patting Peter on the arm as she swept past him. "Anja, come help me," she smiled.

Peter's eyes followed the two ladies out the door, and he sighed dramatically as they left. "I'm grateful for their help, really I am, Schnitzer, but I hadn't expected to have them ladies fussin' over me while I sit here with me bum in the air," he said. Oskar ignored the complaint and pronounced the bandaging complete, so Peter gingerly stood, allowing Hogan to steady him.

"How about that tea, then?" he asked, allowing a small smile of relief and anticipation to flicker across his face. Schnitzer threw an arm around his shoulder and said, "Right this way."

**XXX**

A fire was blazing in the large, cluttered farm kitchen. Peter was prepared to drink his tea standing up, but Mathilde waved him to a small sofa pulled up snug to a coffee table. "Sit down at the tête-à-tête," she said. Being Alsatian, she spoke a mish-mash of French and German.

Peter knew just enough French, courtesy of LeBeau, to translate, and he smiled at the word: head to head. "In English, it's called a loveseat," he said as he settled into a blanket that Mathilde has stretched across the soft cushions. As soon as the words were out, he felt himself turning pink. And as soon as Anja took a seat beside him, he was sure he was now a bright, glowing scarlet.

"Eat," Mathilde said with a smile. She placed a plate of small sandwiches before him—some ham, some cheese, all on the brown bread that she knew Peter liked. He was ravenous after a long evening, and started to dig in, but restrained himself, taking only one sandwich at a time.

Anja handed him a cup of tea. "Mathilde said you take three lumps of sugar and some cream," she said, shyly. "I hope you like it."

Three lumps was an unheard-of luxury. "It's just perfect," Peter said with a sigh. He balanced his sandwich on the edge of the saucer, looked Anja in the eyes and placed his free hand over hers. "Thank you, Anja," he said. He and Anja chatted and laughed for the next half hour, their heads together as if enjoying a private joke they'd shared for years. They barely noticed when Mathilde deposited slices of iced ginger cake on their plates. and they were oblivious to the delighted smiles and winks from the Schnitzers and, yes, even Colonel Hogan.

**XXX**

After finishing their tea, Peter and Anja took a short walk in the moonlit garden. Peter wanted to stretch out his aching limbs. And once he'd looked up and seen their grins, he also wanted a moment away from the watchful eyes of the adults. He took Anja's hand once they were outside in the dark, and they strolled, breathing in the early spring blossoms.

"_Schneeglöckchen_," Anja said. "Little snow bells."

"I think they're called 'snowdrops' in English," Peter said. "Do you like to garden, Anja?"

"Oh, I do," she said happily, holding his arm with both hands. "To make something new and beautiful, just by giving it a little water and sunshine and attention, it's a very good feeling." She stopped for a moment. "Peter, your German is very good. Speak to me in English so I can practice, alright?"

"Is that safe?" Peter asked.

"Here? Of course!" Anja giggled in reply.

He shifted to English, and instantly regretted it. "Um, well, I can, I can, I can try, b-but you're not going to llllearn to pronounce English well by listening to mmmme. We d-dont wwwwwant you st-st-stammering." He smiled as he said it, but there was grief in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I completely forgot," Anja replied. "Is it hard?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is stammering difficult? Does it upset you?" She looked at him with such a sweet, innocent look of curiosity that he felt an intense urge to kiss her then and there.

He dipped his head forward, not daring to look at her. He answered in German: "It um, it's hard when I have things to say but can't get the words out. Sometimes it's embarrassing. People look at me." Then he switched to English: "B-b-but I don't mmmind speaking English with you."

"Well, if I look at you, it's not because of that, alright?" Anja said in a teasing tone. She jumped up onto a little brick wall and scampered along it while Peter looked on in amusement.

"All the girls were looking at you tonight, you know," Anja observed slyly. "You had every fourteen-year-old girl in Hammelburg ready to throw herself at your feet." She expected to see Arno's confidence, but instead saw Peter's shyness resurface.

"Um, well, I, uh..." he stammered.

The kitchen door opened and Mathilde beckoned to them. "Anja, it's time for your friend to leave," she called out.

Anja jumped down from the little stone wall and grabbed Peter's arm. "I've said something awkward. I'm sorry."

"Nnnno, it's me. I j-j-j-j-j..." He stopped and heaved out a big sigh. "J-j-j-jay is mmmy worst sound. I don't know wwwhy I ever attempt it, really. Good thing it's not a sound in G-G-G... Deutsch. I was going to say I'm not used to p-people looking at mmme unless they're nnnoticing my st-stammer. But I was performing, you see. Those girls didn't see mmmme. They saw Arno, and, and, and he's not mmmme."

Anja looked at him curiously, then tightened her grip on his hand. "Well, I see you, Peter, and I like what I see and what I hear," she said.

**XXX**

It was half past midnight when Peter limped back into the barracks, a few steps ahead of Hogan. He was pulling his nightshirt out of his footlocker when Hogan appeared at his side. "You're not climbing up to your bunk tonight," he said. "In with me."

Peter hesitated. He wanted his own bunk with its familiar bumps and depressions. But the Colonel was right – he didn't fancy climbing up there and trying to get settled with his legs as sore as they were. So he headed into Hogan's office as the Colonel huddled at the barracks room table to debrief Kinch.

Inside Hogan's office, Peter was undressing quietly when Louis popped his head in. "Are you all right?" he asked. He stopped when he saw the bandages. "What happened to your legs?"

"Oh, these? An overenthusiastic Hitler Youth leader bashed the shit out of me with his paddle. It hurt like bloody hell, but I'll live. Anyway, mission accomplished," Peter replied.

"And how was Anja?" Louis asked.

"Well, lovely of course. But now that she's seen me as a ruddy schoolboy who j-j- just had six of the best from the headmaster, I can't imagine my sex appeal is at its highest," he grumbled. "I'm bloody tired. I'm going to sleep." His first attempt to sit on the bottom bunk went poorly as he grimaced in pain, so he allowed Louis to help him lower himself down.

"Mmmarvelous. I'm a ruddy cripple now," Peter griped. He slowly got comfortable, curling up on his side.

LeBeau perched on the side of the bed as Peter settled into place. There were things he needed to say.

"You like her a great deal," he stated simply.

"Yes," Peter replied. "She really is lovely. M-M-Mathilde gave us tea and cake and ssssandwiches and we talked and talked. It's ever so easy to talk with her, Louis."

"How is her English?"

"Good, I think, but I mmmmostly spoke G-German so I wwwouldn't st-st-st-stammer."

"She knows you stammer, Pierre. I don't think she cares, judging from the twinkle in her eye when she looked at you," he said with a warm smile.

"Twinkle? Leave off, Louis..." Peter wasn't sure if he was being teased or if LeBeau had actually noticed a spark.

"I mean it. She is very fond of you. You must be a gentleman, Pierre," LeBeau said.

"I'm not... I c-can't... I'm not a t-t-toff, Louis," Peter stuttered. "A g-g-g-gentleman? Mmmme?"

"Yes, you. Being a gentleman is not about being a 'toff,' as you say, Pierre. it means being respectful and courteous and letting her show you how close she wishes to be," LeBeau said gently. "Have you kissed her?"

"Nnnnno" Peter replied. "We, we, we held hands."

"Yes, well you will kiss her soon." LeBeau saw the look of mild outrage on Peter's first and waved it away. "Please. It is obvious you will. The first kiss should be very sweet, Pierre. Chaste, as you English say. _Compris_?"

Peter looked completely confused. "Not on her lips, then?" he asked.

"No, of course on her lips. Anything else is unromantic. Just no..." He stopped himself as he observed the intensity with which Peter was looking at him. Oh, _mon Dieu_, he thought. How ignorant could an eighteen year old be? At eighteen, he certainly must know ... and then he stopped himself. At eighteen, Louis LeBeau had not been in the air force for four years and a prisoner for three of them.

"No tongue kissing unless she starts it," LeBeau said. "And even then, take it easy."

"Tongue kissing?" Peter said. LeBeau nearly laughed at how shocked he looked.

"Oui, and I promise you will enjoy it," LeBeau said. "But the first time, keep it simple. And no touching below the neck, Pierre. Because her aunt and uncle will be watching, so not yet. _Compris_?"

"Um, alright," Peter replied, deep in thought as Louis draped a blanket over him. "Louis?" he asked, grabbing LeBeau's arm.

"Oui, mon frérot?" LeBeau said with a smile.

"Do I close my eyes wwwwhen I kiss her?"

"Always. It is much more intimate," LeBeau said.

"I thought so," Peter said. "That's how they do it in the pictures."

LeBeau patted his arm. "_Fais dodo_," he said softly, as he closed the door behind him. "_Fais de beaux rêves."_

Peter nodded gratefully to whatever Louis had just said and responded, "Good night, mate." It didn't take long for him to sink into a deep slumber.

XXX

At the table in the barracks, Hogan was still recapping the mission with Kinch, who was taking meticulous notes. "We have the plans, and some diagrams from Witman," he said. "Oh, and at the last minute, Frau Witman gave this to Anja," he added, fishing the roll of film out of his pocket. "We weren't expecting it, but let's develop it and see what we find," Hogan said. "It can wait till morning," he added.

He turned to LeBeau. "How's Peter doing?" he asked. Newkirk was his English Corporal, but Peter was his son, and the distinction was lost on no one.

"He is in bed, and he is very sore, but I think he'll feel better in the morning, _mon Colonel._ The cuts hurt, but it seems like the real wound was to his pride. I don't think he wants to be sixteen again," Louis snickered.

"Hey, at least I didn't make him wear lederhosen," Hogan quipped. Downshifting, he added, "The way he tells it, I always thought he liked his ladies brazen. But Anja's a sweet girl. And I think our light-fingered friend is quite smitten."

"He doesn't know what he likes. Everything he knows of love, he learned at the movies," LeBeau said. "An affectionate, pure young lady like Anja is perfect for him. And yes, _il a été conquis_."


	6. Chapter 5: Every Picture Tells a Story

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 5: EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY**

Peter slept hard that night, barely stirring until he woke in the morning to Colonel Hogan shaking his shoulder.

"Get up, Peter. Rollcall's in 20 minutes," Hogan said.

"Just five more minutes," Peter moaned.

Hogan leaned in, and if Peter had his eyes open he would have seen the Colonel grinning. "Sorry, son," he said as he gave him another shake. "Time, tide, and Colonel Klink wait for no man. Let's get you on your feet." He reached a strong arm behind Peter's back and helped lever him up to a sitting position. "How do your legs feel?" he asked with definite concern.

Peter was still sleepy eyed. He tested his legs by stretching them in front of him, then inhaled sharply. Bugger, it really pulled on his torn skin when he moved his joints. But he didn't want to burden the Gov with his problems, so he raised himself onto his feet and took a few tight steps.

"Blimey, I'm stiff as a board," Peter grumbled. "This mmmmust be what it's like to be fffforty."

Hogan arched an eyebrow. "Forty's not old, Newkirk," he said, sounding defensive. He was just about to be 36, for crying out loud, and Peter knew it.

Peter picked up on Hogan's response. "Uh, sorry Gov, no offense. You don't look a day over um, 32," he said, taking a wild stab at what might sound young to the Colonel. Uh-oh, he thought. He'd better change the subject. "I'm sure I'll be fine once we get these bandages off."

"That's going to take some doing. They've got that salve on them, and it's dry now. Schnitzer said they'll need to be moistened and peeled back carefully, and then we need to reapply it all," Hogan said. "We'll get Wilson to help with that right after rollcall, OK? In the meantime, you can stand, can't you?" he added, with deep concern creeping back into his voice. He blamed himself whenever his men were injured on a mission, and it was worse with Peter. When he was hurt, Hogan's mind flooded with memories of a little boy he'd once held in his arms.

"Not to worry Sir, I've 'ad worse," Peter said. He yanked on his trousers and slipped on his pullover, but accepted Hogan's help in tying up his boots, since he couldn't bend down properly. "Sir," he asked as Hogan knelt in front of him, "do you reckon Anja's all right? It was her first mmmission and all."

"I think she's all right," Hogan said, smiling slightly as he tied off the first bootlace. "You had a nice time together, too."

"Yes, Sir," Peter said tentatively.

"She's a sweet girl, and you made an excellent team," Hogan said. "We'll check in with Schnitzer later, OK? I think she handled herself very well."

"Very well," Peter agreed with a soft smile. "She had no trouble at all b-becoming Liesel. What was that thing Frau Witman gave 'er, Sir?"

The film. Hogan had nearly forgotten. "A roll of film," he said. "I gave it to Kinch. We should be able to develop it this morning. Come on, up and at 'em, Corporal," he said, pulling Newkirk back up to his feet and leading the way to the main barracks room, a protective arm supporting his boy.

XXX

After rollcall, Hogan waved Wilson over and huddled close. Peter saw Hogan cock a thumb at him and Wilson's eyes followed in his direction. He rolled his eyes in response. Oh, great. He was going to have an appointment with the medic. Wilson went off in the direction of his barracks. Hogan strode over and pulled Peter away from where he was having a perfectly pleasant smoke and banter with Carter, Kinch and LeBeau before they got down to their day's work.

"But it's a beautiful day!" Peter protested as the Colonel steered him inside by his shoulder. "J-j-j-just look at the sun shining on the barbed wire," he complained, waving his arms dramatically as Hogan pushed him toward the door. "Oh, c-come on, Sir, j-j-just a little mmmore time with me mmmates, to enjoy walking about aimlessly and irritating our captors? Is that askin' too mmuch?"

Hogan just laughed as he herded Peter inside. Stutter or no stutter, he sure could talk up a storm. "Sorry, soldier. We've got to get those bandages changed. Wilson's on his way, and he's got other patients after you. Easier ones."

"Bloody marvelous," Peter groused. "With an emphasis on bloody, I daresay."

"In my room. Trousers off," Hogan said, holding open the door.

"Ooh, I was hoping you'd say that," Peter said in his best imitation of a saucy, effeminate voice.

"Knock it off, Newkirk, or I'll tell Anja on you," Hogan dished right back, attempting to sound firm. But as soon as the door shut in front of him, he laughed and shook his head. He never had to worry about Newkirk as long as he was "on," entertaining everyone with his crazy performances. It was only when he went quiet that he had to wonder what was going through his head.

XXX

Peter was sitting on Hogan's lower bunk, trousers still in place, when Hogan and Wilson entered. Hogan took one look, crossed his arms and shook his head. "What did I tell you, Newkirk? Quit stalling."

"Fine," Peter said with a huff. Hogan watched out of the corner of his eyes as Peter took his trousers off and sat down, looking embarrassed. It always surprised Hogan that for someone who'd spent his entire life living in close quarters with others, Peter was shy about undressing.

"Warm water, Colonel," Wilson said in his usual, efficient way. "Just make sure whatever container it's in is completely clean. Scrub it out with bleach if necessary, Sir." He looked up. "We can send for LeBeau if you'd prefer."

"Nah, I'll do it. You know how LeBeau is with blood," Hogan replied, with an apologetic look at Peter, who stared back, wide-eyes. Hogan hoped it wouldn't too messy, but he'd seen the wounds yesterday and wasn't optimistic.

"All right, Newkirk. Lie down on your stomach and tell me about these cuts of yours," Wilson said.

"What is there to tell?" Peter groused. "A lunatic bashed me in the legs about a hundred times with a leather and wooden paddle. It 'urt like the blazes."

"Anything on the buttocks?" Wilson inquired, starting to draw down Peter's shorts for a peek.

"No! Stop that!" Peter snapped. "It's just my legs!"

"Hmm. Would you tell me if it wasn't?"

Peter jutted out his lip. "Probably not. But I'm t-t-t-telling you the truth. Leave me bum alone."

Across the room, as he prepared the basin, Hogan suppressed a snicker. "He got a thorough examination yesterday from Schnitzer, and I didn't see any evidence of additional injuries," he said. "He was paddled only on the back of his thighs."

"How's it feel now?" Wilson asked.

"Better, I suppose," Peter grumped.

"I guess it could have been worse," Wilson said as Hogan crossed the room and placed a large bowl of warm water on a chair next to the medic.

"Of c-c-course it c-could 'ave been worse. 'e c-c-c-could 'ave flogged me with the c-c-captain's daughter," Peter snapped. Wilson clearly had no idea what that meant, so Peter elaborated. "You know, the cat o' nine tails," he said with a snarl.

"So it does hurt," Wilson said.

"Yes," Peter sulked. "And it will 'urt mmmmore when you're d-d-done with mmmmme."

"And you're scared," Hogan added.

"Of c-c-course I am," Peter said, holding onto his defiance. "I'm not dim. I know it's going to bloody well 'urt. Any-any-anyone would be sssscared."

"That's right, anyone would," Hogan said in an agreeable tone that had the desired effect of soothing Peter's nerves. "And I'll be right here if you need me," he added, taking a seat on the bed near Peter's feet. "Let's get your boots off so you don't kick me or Wilson right in the teeth," he said, unlacing them. "Or elsewhere."

XXX

It took nearly 45 minutes to soak the old bandages, remove them, treat the wounds with iodine, and bind them up again, and it was as uncomfortable and tricky as everyone expected. Peter was tough and never broke down. But there were a few rough patches where he came close, screaming exceptionally creative profanities as the iodine stung him and squeezing the Colonel's hands until _he_ was ready to yelp. Wilson sprinkled sulfa on the wounds, then examined the goldenseal and marigold powders that Schnitzer had sent along. He shrugged, not knowing what to make of them, but made a mental note to ask LeBeau and Carter if they had any experience with herbal remedies.

"We'll change them again tomorrow morning, but they should come off easier," Wilson said as he packed up his bag and gathered up all the bloody gauze and bandages to be burned. The shut his medic's bag and looked at Peter, who was now sitting on the bunk with his trousers back on as Hogan tugged his boots into place. "Sorry, Newkirk, wounds like that can get infected easily if we don't stay on top of them. You don't want that."

"I don't want any of it," Peter sniffled, sitting cross-armed and starting to feel sorry for himself. "It's not fair."

"It's definitely not fair," Wilson agreed. "Now listen up. You have to take it easy. You can't stretch those wounds, so keep off the ladders, and you'll have to sleep in a bottom bunk, OK?"

Peter answered with a shrug; he was busy sulking. Hogan nodded at Wilson as he headed for the door, then sat down beside Peter, wrapping an arm around him. "That hurt like hell, didn't it?" he asked gently.

Peter responded with a deep intake of breath and a sniffle. He leaned into the Colonel's shoulder and nodded, fighting back tears. It did bloody well hurt and now he was going to have to do it again and again. He was grateful that the Colonel wasn't talking or asking him questions. Hogan had learned that sometimes the best thing he could do for Peter was to simply hold him close.

Peter allowed himself feel the embrace, the strong hand stroking his arm. He closed his eyes and was grateful that the Colonel was his guardian and would always protect him. He wished he'd been his Dad forever; he remembered being little enough to sit on Mavis's lap and just cuddle, and wondered if proper fathers ever did that. Tucked under his Gov's arm, he inhaled his rainy, grassy aftershave and the faint smell of his sweat. Hogan's scent calmed Peter, as it reassured him that someone bigger and stronger was in charge. Peter wanted to nestle into him for hours, to feel completely safe in his arms, to melt. He could feel himself drifting.

Then he caught himself, embarrassed by his fantasy. He straightened his back and pulled away.

As he pushed himself up to stand, Hogan stood too and grabbed his elbow, but Peter swatted it away. "I can get up on me own pins, Sir," he said softly. "Thank you, I'll be all right."

"Good man," Hogan said, patting his young charge on the back. Peter didn't show it, but he lit up inside at even the slightest praise. Yes, he was a man. He had to act like one. It wouldn't do to whimper and whine, and it was bloody well time he stopped.

XXX

Peter was doing his best to cover up a stiff walk as he and Hogan returned to the main room of the barracks. The rest of the men were still outside and the room was silent when suddenly the bunk to the tunnel rose, startling both men.

Kinch emerged. "We've got the film developed Sir, and you need to see this." He turned to Peter. "How are you doing, Newkirk? I heard you had a rough time."

"Thanks, Kinch, I'm fine," Peter said, lighting a cigarette and waving a hand to shoo away any suggestion of difficulty. "What's in the photos?"

Kinch cast a nervous look at Hogan, and then back at Peter. "I think we'd better let the Colonel size them up first," he said.

"I'll come," Peter said, heading for the tunnel behind Hogan. The Colonel turned around and stopped him, placing a hand on his chest.

"Weren't you listening to Wilson? No climbing until those wounds have healed. I'll be right back up," Hogan said. He looked at Peter sympathetically, knowing that he hated to let his teammates, especially Hogan and LeBeau, out of his sight when he was anxious. Hogan laid an arm on Peter's shoulder and squeezed.

Peter's look of annoyance at being told no turned to acceptance. He knew he wouldn't have made it down the ladder without pain. "Righto, Sir," he told Hogan with a frown and went outside to look for LeBeau.

**XXX**

"These are great," Hogan was saying to Kinch as he looked over the photos from Frau Witman's film. "The Witmans got lots of different angles on the munitions factory site. Great detail on the entrance and exit, and we can see how it's been guarded. These will be very valuable."

"I agree, Sir. But Colonel, it's the last three photos that got my attention." He held out another strip of film.

Colonel Hogan examined the strip closely and blanched. This couldn't be right. He looked again.

"What do you make this out to mean, Kinch?" he asked.

"Frau Witman is trying tell us something," he said. "About Herr Witman."


	7. Chapter 6: A Simmering Stew

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 6: A SIMMERING STEW**

As Peter strolled out into the camp yard, he regretted showing any emotion over his injuries both last night and this morning. Yes, they hurt. But they'd all had worse. Signs of weakness weren't tolerated in a camp full of more than 900 men, and the members of Hogan's team in particular had to be extra tough. Through sheer determination, he assumed his usual jaunty walk, pain or no pain.

Across the compound, he saw Louis checking his small vegetable patch and went to join him. It was barely 9 A.M. and the shadows were still long as he reached Louis, who was crouching down to pull some weeds when Peter arrived. He stood up and dusted himself off.

"_Salut_, _mon petit __frère_," Louis said as Peter walked up to him. He looked him over. "You should shave today. You're getting scruffy."

Peter scrubbed a hand across his face. "Really?" he said. He tried not to sound excited, but he was. He usually shaved every four or five days because he just didn't have that much beard, and he had shaved the day before yesterday.

"_Oui_, you need it," Louis said, studying him carefully. "I'll give you a razor." There weren't enough sharp razors to go around, but Louis—who in civilian life was a twice-a-day shaver—always seemed to have a spare. Razors were to LeBeau as cigarettes were to Newkirk: An essential item as well as a form of camp currency.

"_Et autre chose_," Louis said, leaning in, "you'll want to look your best for Anja." He elbowed Peter in the ribs.

"Anja? She's c-coming today?" Peter's voice rose an octave and he flushed instantly.

"_Oui_," Louis answered. "Schultz told me Schnitzer is expected at 11 AM. Two of the new dogs have taken sick, and they need to be swapped before the others catch it," he said. "Or so they say."

Peter lit a cigarette and handed it to Louis, then lit one for himself. The mention of Anja had made him jumpy. Nervous and excited all at once, and he had to try not to show it.

**XXX**

After finishing their smoke, Louis and Peter strolled back to the barracks for a shave. "Me first, then you," Louis said. "I'll show you how to shave against the growth for a closer shave."

"You told me to shave wwwwwith the grain, Louis," Peter said.

"I know, but you're ready to learn an additional technique," LeBeau said.

As Peter and Louis entered the room, they saw Kinch and Hogan seated at the table with Carter, and they all looked worried. Hogan looked up and waved them over to be seated.

"Gentlemen, we have a problem," Hogan said. "Operation Brutus is in effect."

Everyone knew what Operation Brutus meant. Someone in the resistance had been compromised, putting their own operation into jeopardy. Until the weak link could be identified and neutralized, all activities would have to be throttled down.

"Who, _mon Colonel_?" LeBeau whispered.

"It looks like one of the Witmans. Either Herr Witman has gone bad, or his wife is trying to frame him," Hogan said.

"It's gotta be him," Peter said sourly. "He's a llloony."

Hogan put an arm around Peter, who had sat down next to him. "I know you have good reason to think that, Peter," he said softly. "But we have to keep an open mind and gather the facts."

"The photographic evidence puts Herr Witman in Nazi headquarters in Hammelburg just before our latest handoff to him," Carter said. "It's pretty powerful."

"Yes, but Frau Witman had to be there too, to take the photos," Hogan answered. "It's evidence, but it's not proof."

"Spoken like a lawyer, Sir," Kinch said.

"Maybe in my next life," Hogan answered. "We've got to get to the bottom of this. And that means another contact with the Witmans to probe for weaknesses." All eyes turned to Peter.

"Oh, bloody hell," he moaned. "Why me?"

"Because you fit into his world of schools and pupils, Peter. Tough luck, old bean, but you're the youngest-looking guy we have on the operations team," Hogan said.

"Baker's not that much older! He's nineteen! Well, tw-twenty soon, but..." Peter protested. Everyone just stared at him. "All right, all right, p-point taken. W-what do you need me to do this time?"

LeBeau was pulling him to his feet. "First thing, shave. You want to look nice when Schnitzer gets here."

"I thought you were going first," Peter muttered as Louis pushed him toward the sink.

"He wants to look nice for Schnitzer?" Carter was puzzling. Everyone laughed except for Andrew and Peter.

"No, but he wants to look nice for Anja," Hogan said in a teasing tone. "She'll be along with Schnitzer to take back the photographs. Use plenty of warm water, Newkirk. You'll need a good, close shave to look your part tonight."

"Tonight?!" Peter said. "I'm not even supposed to be climbing the ruddy ladder!"

"Don't worry. You'll be going out in a staff car. And we're going to let you wear long pants this time," Hogan said.

"Very kind of you, Sir," Peter practically spat. "And the word is trousers. Not 'pants,' trousers."

"I stand corrected, Private," Hogan replied.

Peter blushed. "S-s-s-sssorry, Sir. No d-d-disrespect intended. 'P-p-pants' are undergarments in English, that's all. I expect it's d-d-different in Am-Am-American."

"Just mind your P's and Q's, Newkirk," Hogan answered firmly but kindly. "Now get ready. Anja will be here soon."

**XXX**

LeBeau stood over Peter, instructing him as he washed with warm water and lathered up. "Take your time to rub in the shaving cream, and don't ignore your neck," he said.

"I know how to shave, LeBeau," Peter said irritably. He was acutely aware that everyone was watching.

"Psssh," LeBeau said dismissively. "Every man can shave. Only a few can get a close shave without cutting themselves. Do you want to learn, or not?"

Hearing that, Carter was on his feet, and half the room was silently observing. LeBeau shaved twice a day because he had to, and there was a certain awe of that fact.

"Three minutes to prepare the skin, and _ne prends pas de raccourcis_," LeBeau said.

"Huh?" Carter said.

"Don't cut corners," Peter translated. "And st-stop hovering, Andrew."

"Work with the grain first, as you usually do," LeBeau said. "Smaller strokes, Pierre, and rinse off the razor after each stroke," he quietly coached him. "And don't go over the same spot until you re-lather. You don't want to irritate the skin."

"Baby face," Olsen teased as he edged closer for LeBeau's lesson.

"Shut up, Olsen," Peter said. "Ow." He had nicked himself under the chin.

LeBeau, armed with a styptic pen, dipped it in the shaving water and treated the spot as Peter winced. "The angle was too steep when you got distracted," he said pointedly as Olsen shifted uncomfortably. "Finish the first pass, then lather up again."

Peter did as he was told and waited for LeBeau's signal to commence.

"This time you shave in the opposite direction," he instructed Peter. "Pull the skin back with your hand-that's right. And go slowly. Watch the razor angle. Don't press too hard." He was trying not to smile too broadly but he looked every inch the wise older brother as he guided Peter through the steps.

Finally, Peter rinsed his face, toweled off, and stepped back to inspect the results "You usually do it th-th-three times, don't you, Louis?" he asked, running a hand over his cheek as he examined his reflection sideways in the mirror.

"Yes, yes, I shave with, against and across the grain, but don't get ambitious," LeBeau said. "Twice is more than enough for you, and that's only because you need to look young tonight. Most of the time, you should just shave once, _tu piges_? Your skin isn't ready for more frequent shaving."

Carter piped in. "How about me, LeBeau?" He scraped a hand over his chin. "You think I should try shaving against the growth too?"

LeBeau looked him over carefully. "How old are you again, Carter?"

"Twenty-five last month. You know that," Carter laughed.

"And you shave how often?"

"Usually every other day," Carter replied. "A lot more than Peter does," he added.

Peter frowned in irritation; LeBeau frowned because he wasn't sure how to put what he had to say.

"I think you've got all the beard you're going to get, Carter," LeBeau replied. "Shaving one time should be enough for you, _mon ami, _but maybe you'll get up to once a day eventually. Pierre is getting a thicker beard and will need to shave regularly soon. But after twenty-one? No. It won't happen for you."

It was Peter's turn to beam.

"Of course, I was shaving twice a day at sixteen, so who am I to say?" LeBeau added, leaving both Peter and Carter looking crestfallen. Peter pulled his coat on and they wandered off together into the compound while LeBeau prepared his own hot water basin and gathered up his shaving cream and towel.

Hogan sidled up to him as he was lathering up. "Nice job. He could pass for fourteen with that smooth face, and he's feeling like a big shot for needing to shave twice. Do you think it'll hold him until tonight?"

"Tonight? He won't need to shave again for a week after that," LeBeau grinned

**XXX**

At 10:30, Peter was at the table, smelling of Taylor of Old Bond Street aftershave, and getting antsy for Anja's imminent arrival. He seemed intent on passing the time by annoying LeBeau, who was attempting to assemble a decent midday meal for the Colonel and his core team.

"C-c-come on, play cards with me, Louis," Peter pleaded, dragging on a cigarette as he shuffled.

"No. You cheat. And I'm busy. Go bother someone else." LeBeau adored his friend, but _mon Dieu_, there were times when he needed too much attention—namely, anytime he was sick, injured or overly excited. And right now, he was two of the three.

"You cut me to the quick. And you know I c-c-can't. Carter and Kinch are down the tunnel, and Wilson said I can't climb the lll,llladder until my cuts heal." He let out a big sigh. "All right, let's try something different. You stand right there and chop your onions and I'll do sssome magic."

"What magic?"

"I'll make you say 'black.'"

Louis scoffed. "That's not magic. And no you won't._Tais-toi, __tu m'énerves_."

"Yes I will. What are the colors of the French fl-fl-flag?"

"It's called _le tricolore_, _mon petit __frère_. And the colors are blue, white and red, of course."

"There, I said you'd say blue," Peter said triumphantly.

Louis shook his paring knife at Peter. "No, you said I'd say black."

"Yes, and now you've said it," Peter said with a cat's grin. He ducked to avoid the tin cup Louis hurled at his head.

XXX

Fifteen minutes later, with a stew on a simmer, Peter and Louis ambled out to the yard to wait for Schnitzer and Anja to arrive. It wouldn't do to turn up as they arrived, so they had to make themselves busy. They tried kicking around a soccer ball, but the twist of the knee wasn't helping Peter's injuries. So they took a stroll around the yard instead.

When Schnitzer's van rolled into the compound, Louis had to restrain Peter from breaking into a gallop to see Anja. He strolled back to see Schnitzer descending from the van for a talk with Schultz. Peter craned his neck to see how he had missed Anja. He hadn't. She wasn't there.

Hogan was standing with Schnitzer and Schultz, appearing to exchange idle pleasantries, as Peter and Louis walked up to join them. From close up, Peter could see the deepening grooves in Schnitzer's grizzled face. He looked angry, and something else. Peter tipped his head to make sense of it. Terrified. That was it.

"Where's Anja?" he asked quietly as he stepped up to Colonel Hogan. "I thought we were expecting 'er."

The Colonel put an arm around the young Corporal's back. "Taken in for questioning, Peter. At Gestapo Headquarters. Not for long, I hope," he said, looking meaningfully into Peter's stricken eyes. Louis gripped Peter's arm to steady him.

"That nice girl," Schultz said, tsk-tsking. "So pretty. I am sure she is innocent."

"Innocent, _ja_," Schnitzer said. "I know it, but will they admit it?" He looked right at Peter. "And there's more. They are looking for the boy she was with the other night. I think his name was … Arno."

Peter leaned into Hogan's hold, suddenly wanting the comfort of his embrace. No, not comfort, he corrected himself. Just a fatherly arm to give him strength so he could face the next challenge like a man.

"We have to get her, Sir," Peter said firmly.

"You are prisoners. You cannot help," Schultz put in, the words sounding more like a warning than an expression of disbelief. "She is a girl, Schnitzer, a young girl. Not even the Gestapo would handle her roughly. Would they, Colonel Hogan?" Now he seemed to be pleading for reassurance.

"Don't ask me, Schultz. They're your goon squad," Hogan said. "Newkirk's right. She's going to need help, and fast."


	8. Chapter 7: Into the Fray

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 7: INTO THE FRAY**

The men were gathered in Colonel Hogan's office. It was only 11 o'clock and this day had already piled calamity upon catastrophe.

Someone in the local Underground cell was compromised, and it wasn't clear if it was Herr Witman, Frau Witman or someone else entirely. That meant Operation Brutus was in effect, shutting down the whole network until Hogan's men could identify the weak link. And now, to make matters worse, Anja was in Gestapo custody.

Hogan had been working on a plan for Peter and himself to rendezvous in the evening with both Witmans to probe for weaknesses. But now Anja's safety took priority. They needed to find out exactly where she was, what she was accused of, and how she was being treated.

And since a sixteen-year-old boy named Arno was now wanted by the authorities, Peter had to be kept safe too.

As they pondered the situation, every man's thoughts traveled back to his own experiences with Gestapo interrogation. At one point or another, every member of Hogan's core team had been beaten, and they all remembered hours of sleep deprivation. All except Carter, that is, because he had somehow failed to hold the Gestapo's interest for more than 15 minutes. Peter was of the opinion that he had started talking and bored them to death, and no one disputed his theory.

They'd all had it bad. Hogan had been subjected to relentless questioning and waterboarding. Kinch had been dragged to a mock execution, then shown stark photos and newsreels of lynchings in the American South in an effort to extract secrets by weakening his loyalty. LeBeau had been hanged by his thumbs and locked for days in a cell where he could neither sit nor stand. Newkirk endured electric shocks and food deprivation, and on two separate occasions a year apart he had been "noticed" for his youthful appearance and degraded accordingly by debauched men more than twice his age. He hadn't cracked, but he also hadn't told a soul.

They had all held up, but they all had reason to fear the worst for Anja, who was only twenty, and a civilian to boot. And a girl, they would have all said once, but they'd seen too many tough female operatives to consider that an extenuating circumstance any longer, except for the small matter of rape.

"It's entirely possible she'll be released," Hogan said reassuringly. "They don't always lead with brutal tactics, especially with civilians. But we have to get in there, for her sake and for ours."

"We can't let them hurt her, Sir," Peter said firmly.

"Boy, if she starts talking…" Carter said, "Boy, we could all be in hot water. She knows a lot about the operation."

"She wwwwwon't talk. Not that girl. She's str-str-strong," Peter said.

"She's also new to this line of work, Peter, and doesn't have the training we all had before we went into combat," Hogan said. "I'm sorry, but Carter's right. In the interest of the operation, we have to make sure she doesn't talk."

"But if we spring her, that's going to trigger a whole world of trouble and suspicion," Kinch said.

"That's right. Our best bet is to undermine and defuse the accusations. But first we'd have to know she's said and what she's suspected of," Hogan said. "So we're going to get in there tonight to see her."

"I want to go, Sir," Peter said.

"No," Hogan replied. "Absolutely not. The Gestapo is looking for a boy who matches Arno's description and that means we've got to keep you out of sight." He stopped and paced across his room several times. "Unless…"

"Unless what, Sir?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Unless your dear Uncle Willi from Berlin has higher connections than anyone here in hicktown Hammelburg could have imagined. I hate to tell you, Peter, but you're going to need to get your shorts and neckerchief ready."

"With my legs all sliced to bits? Won't someone notice?"

"They'd better, because that's the plan," Hogan said.

**XXX**

Uncle Willi looked considerably sharper in his black Gestapo suit than he had in his professorial flannels and tweeds. Arno, on the other hand, looked like a beaten puppy.

In the middle of a sunny afternoon, Willi marched Arno up the steps of Gestapo headquarters and gestured angrily at the boy as he presented his warrant disc. The fact that Gestapo did not carry picture IDs helped keep their identities private, as intended—and also made it easier to slip in a ringer.

"As you can well understand, it is humiliating—simply mortifying—that my own nephew, a member of the Hitler Youth, would get caught up in such disgraceful behavior. We understand you have the young lady here. My superiors in Berlin have sent me to sort out the whole sordid mess." He turned to the boy as they were waved into the entrance. "Disgraceful, Arno, simply disgraceful. Your father is very disappointed in you."

"Sorry, Uncle Willi," Arno murmured dutifully. He was a thick-waisted lad, and he tugged at his jacket sleeves as he waddled down the corridor after his uncle, his head down. "Please don't tell Papa."

"Oh, he has been told, Arno. The consequences will be firm. Those scratches on your legs will look like child's play in comparison to what lies ahead for you." He was hectoring the boy as they walked down the corridor, attracting everyone's attention. Hogan knew from experience that if he talked loudly enough and gestured wildly enough, people would be too captivated by the performance to notice any other details, such as the fact that his story made absolutely no sense.

"The girl of course has been humiliated too, and being dragged in here for questioning—well, that really is the crowning insult, isn't it? She did nothing, of course. The record is clear on that. It was all this boy—sixteen years old and simply raging with hormones. Look at his pimply face." He smacked him across the belly. "And his gut. How many _Berliner Pfannkuchen_ did you have today, hmm?"

"Only three," Arno muttered.

The guard who let them through the security doors to the interrogation cells peered closely. The boy had revolting skin. And when he made an ugly face and bared his teeth, they were a horrid yellow.

"He listens to Jazz," Uncle Willi spat out, gathering a growing audience as he traipsed through the building. "Decadent _American_ music. Appalling. He's even exposed the poor girl to it." He ranted all the way down the hallway, then stopped in front of the cell when Anja Blankmeier sat primly, her hands in her lap, though her eyes were blazing.

"Is this the girl, Arno?" Uncle Willi said as hauled the boy up in front of the cell.

"Yes, uncle," Arno said softly.

"Speak up, or I'll thrash you again when you get home tonight," Uncle Willi said loudly.

"Yes, uncle," Arno said, louder this time.

"Apologize at once."

"I'm sorry, Anja," he said. "I shouldn't have made you pretend to be my sister. I shouldn't have… threatened you as I did."

"Well," Anja replied, not sure exactly where this was going. "I'll think about your apology. Perhaps I'll accept it."

"You know where he gets it, of course." Uncle Willi looked around with only mild apprehension. "We don't like to talk about the SS, of course, but with a father like Hellmuth Becker… "

Uncle Willi's small but rapt audience of six or seven Gestapo interrogators and bureaucrats let out a collective gasp. THE Hellmuth Becker? The notorious SS Commander whose name was a synonym for brutality, ruthlessness and debauchery? The drunkard who organized orgies and casinos for his regiment? The man who rode a horse to death for fun?

Even the two interrogators who had spent hours with Anja Blankmeier instantly got it. Goodness. No wonder the Becker children were taken away from Berlin by their mother to be raised in her hometown for the duration of the war. It was their only chance at a nice, normal Nazi upbringing. If this wasn't Liesel Becker, then the poor girl must be at home, dying of shame. Now it all made sense.

Arno straightened up his back. "I don't mind apologizing, Uncle, but if you say another word, I'll tell Papa exactly what you said about him." He looked around the room. "And I've already memorized all your faces and names," he told the collected gawkers.

The crowd quickly dispersed, leaving only the two interrogators to let Anja out of her cell, with profuse apologies for mistaking her for Liesel Becker and sincere regards to her dear Uncle Oskar, the kindly veterinarian known to everyone in town. Anja was released in Uncle Willi's custody with no further questions asked. As they strode down the hallway, Arno took the girl's hand. "Do you like working with the Tierarzt, Anja?" he said loudly. "Because I think I might like that. Sick and injured animals are very interesting, don't you think?"

"Don't touch me, you horrid boy," Anja said, shaking his hand off with unmistakable revulsion.

**XXX**

They all piled into the back seat of the car for the trip to Schnitzer's farm to drop off the girl. It was a 30-minute ride, and with Louis at the wheel, there was time for Hogan to debrief Anja. She sat in the middle of the seat, between Peter and Hogan.

"What on earth was that performance all about?" Anja asked. She looked relieved, but also immensely confused. "And what's all over your face, Peter? Are you sick?"

"Chicken pox," Peter said brightly. "No, actually, it's j-j-j-just mmmmakeup, Anja. Carter helped me apply it. It's to make sure they remember my face differently.

"Before we get into any of that, are you alright, Anja? Did anyone hurt you?" Hogan asked.

"They roughed me up a little, binding my hands and feet together," she shrugged. "Nothing worse."

"You weren't … violated?" Peter asked diffidently.

"Of course not," Anja said. Then she looked in his eyes. "No," she said, more kindly. "I wasn't touched that way." She looked at Peter with amusement. "Your teeth look disgusting, Peter. And you looked bloated," she observed. "How many layers of clothes do you have on, anyway?"

"Fffffive." Peter replied. "And it's bloody hot, so if you don't mind, I'm going to peel a few layers off while Colonel Hogan asks you a few questions."

Peter quickly whipped off his jacket and three knit shirts that were under his Hitler Youth button-down shirt. He was starting to unbutton his shorts to remove the padding on his bum when he was overcome with a sudden attack of shyness. But heat prostration won out; with a nod, Colonel Hogan held Anja by the shoulders and trained her eyes on a notebook in his hands while Peter quickly rearranged his bottom half. Thus relieved of two more layers, he leaned back in the seat, rolling his sleeves up and sweating, and smiling softly as Anja answered all of the Colonel's questions precisely and clearly.

As Hogan concluded his inquiry, Anja settled in beside Peter for the second half of the ride, resting her head on his shoulder. He took her hand and clutched it to his heart as the staff car barreled toward Schnitzer's farm.

* * *

**A few notes...**

_**Berliner Pfannkuchen** are jelly donuts, and they are quite delicious. _

_I needed a villain named Becker who was old enough to be "Arno's" father, and history was cooperative enough provide one. So yeah, **Hellmuth Becker** was real, and so were all the nasty things he did. You can read all about him on Wikipedia._

_The **abuse** Peter suffered at the hands of the Gestapo was hinted at in chapter 37 of _**A Minor Problem**_, but it was not spelled out. In this chapter, I hope you get the implication without me having to be very specific. In my head canon, this is not something he has told anyone, yet. But eventually he will need to get this off his chest because it is a very deep hurt._


	9. Chapter 8: The Set-Up

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 8: THE SET-UP**

The midday mission to liberate Anja from Gestapo custody nearly ended in disaster when Hogan and Newkirk returned to camp just as the other POWs were running out of ways to confuse the Krauts and interfere with evening rollcall. Every ruse, including Garlotti's dreaded ability to throw up on cue, had been deployed. That left nothing for the POWs to do but shift in their places and hope no one noticed the absence of their senior officer and the troublemaking Englishman.

But sometimes help comes from unexpected places—in this case, the heavens. It had been an unusually warm spring, and thunderstorms had been threatening all day. Schultz had just shut his eyes and begun praying for an easy death when the sky cracked open. Rollcall would have to wait.

"Prisoners dismissed! Sergeant Schultz, dispatch your men to complete head counts in the barracks. And Colonel Hogan…" Klink looked around in confusion. "Where did he go?"

"He was the first to run inside when you said 'dismissed,' Sir," Carter said. "He's allergic to rain."

"Nobody is allergic to rain, Carter," Klink said. "That's simply preposterous."

"Actually, Sir, the science is with you, but you can't tell Colonel Hogan that. Rainwater can be pretty acidic, so I think what we're actually looking at is a mild chemical sensitivity. And you can't downplay the impact of actinomycetes."

"Shut up, Carter," Klink said. "And tell Hogan to man up and come see me as soon as this downpour is over. Allergic to rain," he scoffed as he strode back to the Kommandatur under a large umbrella held over his head by a Sergeant.

"Nice dodge, Carter," Hogan said as the men shuffled back into the barracks. Newkirk was seated at the table, elbows propped and his face resting in his hands in an expression of both exhaustion and relief. "We got here in the nick of time," Hogan said, examining his watch. "2015 hours. Lights out in a little over an hour. What do you think Klink wants to see me about?"

"He has four settings, Sir," Newkirk offered. "Gloat, preen, lecture and plead. It's bound to be one of those."

"Thanks, Newkirk. That really narrows it down," Hogan said with a roll of his eyes. "Alright fellas, listen up. Our original plan was to get to the Witmans tonight. But with this weather, there's no leaving camp before morning. We'll go out tomorrow early if…" he said. "… If we can get Klink to give us a ride into town."

**XXX**

It was half past nine before the rain let up sufficiently for Hogan to meet with Klink. And as soon as they were in the same room, a plan took shape in his mind.

"Colonel Hogan, be seated," Klink had begun. "I have a proposition for you."

Good. That was Setting 4: Plead. Klink wanted something, but first Hogan was going to have to endure one of his other settings. It turned out to be 2: Preen.

"I've been invited to deliver a lunchtime speech to a youth organization tomorrow," Klink said.

"This youth organization wouldn't be the Hitler Youth, would it?" Hogan said, slouching in a chair.

"Yes, of course, and the _Bund Deutscher Mädel," _Klink said. "The cream of future generations."

"How is it the cream if everyone's required to join?" Hogan asked with an innocent look. "I mean, I've seen a cow being milked. There's cream, but there's also a lot of debris, and bacteria, and sediment. I agree with you, Sir, the cream's the good part, but if you let everyone in…"

Klink cut him off. "I'm not interested in your knowledge of dairy science, Hogan. I need your help writing my comments and um, helping me prepare."

"You've got to be kidding, Sir," Hogan said with a derisive laugh. "OK, OK, I'll bite. What's the topic?"

"Men's anno, corporo's anno," Klink said proudly. "I'm told I was selected because of my superlative physical conditioning. I'm the perfect specimen of manliness."

"I'm sure you're an excellent specimen of many things, Sir, but your Latin scholarship leaves something to be desired. It's _mens sana in corpore sano_."

"So you're familiar with the concept."

"With all due respect, Sir, I _am_ the concept. Sure, I can help you with that. On one condition."

"Yes, yes, Hogan, a week's worth of white bread for the men. I've already ordered it, along with a modest supply of butter and eggs."

Well, that was easy. He had Klink so conditioned to his requests that it was becoming unnecessary to ask It was the perfect opportunity to up the ante.

"That, of course, and also I would need to accompany you as your speaking coach. And Sir, I'd like to take one of the younger men with me to show him how respectable young Germans conduct themselves."

Klink didn't have to ask, but he did anyway. "Which man, Hogan?"

"Newkirk. He's out of control, Sir. He's sloppy and lazy and he calls people names. I think he'd benefit from hearing your wisdom, Colonel."

Klink puffed himself up. "By all means, then. Bring the lad along."


	10. Chapter 9: The Take-Down

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 9: THE TAKE-DOWN**

"Your passengers have arrived, Herr Kommandant," Fräulein Helga said as she pushed open the door to Colonel Klink's office. His back was to her as he busied himself making neat stacks of the vast array of papers on his desk. It was 9 o'clock in the morning, his speech was in an hour, and fussing over small details was his way of calming his nerves.

"Hogan, Newkirk? Finally! Let's go." He turned around and faced his prisoners and nearly dropped his monocle. "What are you two wearing?"

"We took the liberty of borrowing some costumes from the Stalag 13 Players production of _Man and Superman,_ Sir," Hogan said, gesturing at the suits he and Newkirk were wearing—regular pinstripes for Peter and a broad beaded stripe for himself. "We couldn't very well go to a Hitler Youth rally in American and British uniforms. We'd be torn limb from limb. We're no match for 200 stout young Aryans."

"Two hundred twenty-five," Klink said proudly, then wrinkled his brow. "I suppose a civilian suit is a sensible precaution." He stopped mid-thought and tipped his chin back. "How do I know you're not trying to escape?"

"We wouldn't get far in there outfits, Sir," Hogan said. "Newkirk tells me we'd never pass for German civilians once we were outside of a room full of children."

"Why is that?" Klink said.

"The workmanship, Sir," Hogan said. "These suits are far too well made to be German."

"British tailoring, Sir," Newkirk put in, leaning forward and smiling broadly with his arms crossed behind his back. "Fffffinest in the world."

"_German_ tailoring is of the highest caliber," Klink contradicted him, sounding miffed. "Why, my favorite suit is a Frederick Scholte, and I always get compliments on it."

"British, Sir. He's the Duke of Wwwindsor's tailor, so if you bought it here it's either second-hand or a knockoff," Newkirk said apologetically. "He p-p-pioneered the drape cut, and he's known for making the best shoulder on Savile Row. He was my inspiration for these, actually."

"Hmmph. Fine. Wear the suits. Navy blue is a ridiculously non-German color anyway."

"I think of it as indigo, Sir," Newkirk put in.

"Fine, fine," Klink said. "Where did you get the fedoras?"

"This one's a Homburg, Sir. It's a bit more swank than Colonel Hogan's ffffedora, don't you think? Notice how the br-brim on mine is t-t-turned up all the way around? Anthony Eden wears one of these, you know."

"That's enough of your nonsense and impudence, Newkirk," Klink snapped. "I expect you to be quiet all the way into town. Do you think you can manage that? And stop stuttering. It's annoying."

Newkirk nodded genially. He'd accomplished his first goal, which was to make Klink not want to spend any more time in his presence. He winked and nodded at Colonel Hogan as they followed Klink out into the compound.

"Sorry, Sir, Newkirk's always been a bit of a clothes horse," Hogan apologized. "I'm sure it was that tailoring apprenticeship that did this to him. He told me he wore a checked sports jacket before the war—can you imagine such a thing?"

"I'm more of a d-d-dandy than a clothes horse, actually. They're not the same thing at all," Newkirk said. "I'm interested in quality over quantity, you see. And making a statement, of course."

Klink ignored them both. "Schultz, be sure to double-padlock the costume closet when we return to camp," he ordered Schultz as he slid into the back seat. "Hogan, sit in back with me so we can practice my speech. Newkirk, sit up front with Schultz, and stop babbling about fashion," he snapped.

"_Jawohl_, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said crisply as he shut the door behind Colonel Hogan. As Newkirk got into the front seat, Schultz muttered, "I thought it was already locked."

**XXX**

They piled out at the Town Hall and made their way to the auditorium. It was already pulsing with languid adolescents, listening to Herr Witman deliver a lecture on the sleazy, lazy habit of listening to degenerate jazz music. Klink was quickly led away with Hogan to a VIP reception, leaving Schultz in the audience with Newkirk. No sooner had they settled into their seats than Newkirk, with an elbow and a whisper, made a request.

"You should have gone before we left," Schultz grumbled. But he escorted Newkirk down a long corridor to the facilities anyway. On the way there, a middle-aged volunteer—a lovely woman with alabaster skin—stopped Sergeant Schultz and asked him if he wouldn't mind helping her set up the donuts and hot chocolate. Swept away by thoughts of refreshments, Schultz instantly forgot his young charge and went off with Mathilde Schnitzer, who smiled and nodded at Peter as she parted.

In the men's room, Peter pulled a dark blond wig out of his coat and slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed eyeglasses. There. No one would recognize him now. Or would they? He studied himself in the mirror and decided a birthmark would help. So he withdrew a brown makeup crayon from his pocket and gave himself a large mole on the cheek.

He took one last look in the mirror and thought of a favorite story. "Oh, the cleverness of me!" he said to his reflection with a broad smile.

Now all he needed to do was catch Herr Witman once he left the stage.

He headed back into the hall and stood at the side of the room, surveying the audience. Once again it was girls on one side and boys on the other—the side closer to him. He quickly picked out Karl, one of the team leaders, shushing boys as Herr Witman spoke. Good advice, Peter thought; it had been three days and his legs were finally scabbing over.

As Herr Witman droned on, Peter thought about Anja and how much easier this would be with her at his side. Then he searched the audience a bit more and noticed Martin, who had befriended him on at the last rally. He was holding court with his friends, this clever, witty and handsome boy that Peter had liked instantly. His floppy brown hair was in his eyes, and as he brushed it aside, Peter suddenly wished he was by his side in the audience. It would be more fun than what he had to do.

He was still thinking about Anja and watching Martin quietly entertaining his friends when Herr Witman concluded his speech and introduced the next speaker. Colonel Klink's ascent to the stage was Peter's cue to start moving toward the stairs at the side of the stage where—with any luck at all—Herr Witman would soon descend. He felt a sudden tingle and sighed, feeling ridiculously inconvenienced by his body, which had an annoying habit of producing pleasant sensations at precisely the wrong time. Louis had told him that this little problem—a big problem, actually, he smirked—would get better as he got a bit older; that really couldn't happen soon enough. He started reciting his 13-times tables as he made his way through the crowd, and by the time he reached the edge of the stage, the awkward bulge that had been forming was barely noticeable. The excitement of the mission had done that, he was sure.

As expected, Herr Witman made his way off stage—and Peter was there to greet him. He sidled up to him and took him firmly by the upper arm. "Arno Becker," he whispered as he walked with him. "But don't call me that. We need to speak in private."

Herr Witman, true to his training as an operative, was unflappable. He walked by Peter's side until he reached an office at the end of the corridor. "In here," he said.

He shut the door and turned to Peter. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Blimey, that's the question of the day, Peter thought. But he answered, "I think you know the answer to that. The Gestapo has been searching for Arno Becker. And he's very easy to spot, by the way, because his legs are covered in stripes."

Behind him, the door creaked open. It was Colonel Hogan, and he had a handgun.

"Papa Bear, please! I can explain everything."

"This better be good," Hogan replied, waving him to a seat with his weapon. "This whole Underground unit is on lockdown because of you. Newkirk, secure the door."


	11. Chapter 10: Double-Double Cross

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 10: DOUBLE-DOUBLE CROSS**

"We don't have a lot of time, Witman," Hogan said, keeping his handgun in full view. "What were you doing at Gestapo headquarters? What information were you exchanging?"

"What are you talking about?" Herr Witman replied nervously.

"I've seen the pictures, Witman. Who's your contact?"

"My contact?" Witman said. "Oh my God. No, Papa Bear, you've got this wrong."

"Yeah, that's what they all say. It doesn't look good for you, Witman, so I suggest you come clean right now. You're costing us a lot of time, and time means lives in our line of work."

"Don't get in the middle of this, Papa Bear! I have it under control!"

Hogan rubbed his forehead and looked tired. "Witman, I'm getting a gigantic headache with your name on it. What is it you think you have under control?"

"I've paid him. I've pushed him off. He won't be back."

"Who, Witman?"

Witman looked from Peter to Hogan and all the determination suddenly went out of him. He seemed to deflate in front of their eyes. "Herr Monck, the new inspector general for the Hammelburg field office of the Gestapo," he said. "I've, I've had to pay him to avert suspicion. He thinks my wife is in the Underground."

"Your wife _is_ in the Underground, Herr Witman," Peter said. "What are you playing at?"

"He thinks I am a loyal German. He knows about Berthe, though. She was seen… with a camera… last month, when we provided you with the details on the new reservoir. I don't think he knows much, just enough to see an opportunity to make some money for himself," he said sourly.

"You're telling me you're being blackmailed to protect your wife?" Witman nodded rapidly. "Witman, assuming you're telling me the truth—and that's a big if—why on earth would you try to handle this alone?" Hogan asked.

Witman winced and sighed. "You know who my brother is, Papa Bear. I can't be sure, but he may be the weak link."

"The Burgemeister," Hogan said gravely. "That's a serious accusation, Witman."

"See, this is wwwhy mmmy mum always said fffamily members should not work together. 'The ffffamily that toils together boils together,' she always said," Newkirk observed. "I was nnnnever sure what 'boils' meant in that context, but it sssssounds a bit medieval."

Hogan gave him a withering look and Peter silenced himself. "Ssssorry, Sir, I was having a bit of a Carter mmmmoment."

"Yes, Papa Bear, I'm aware that it's a serious accusation," Witman said. "But it's not without a basis. I have seen Johann with the same man who is blackmailing me. I was trying to unravel it myself. I suppose I've made a mess of things. I'll have to tell Berthe…"

"Berthe is the one who suspects you, Herr Witman. She tipped us off with a series of photos," Hogan said.

Hogan gave Herr Witman a moment to gasp and sputter at the disturbing news, but there wasn't time for explanations. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to come with us tonight while we sort this out," he said. "We'll bring your wife in for questioning." What he didn't add was, "unless we determine that she is the weak link." Because if she was, justice would be handed out swiftly by the Underground.

**XXX**

The call came into the refreshment station, of all places, but that just meant Germans were resourceful people and very adept at tracking down important men like himself, Colonel Klink thought. "_How_ many prisoners are ill?" he asked Schultz.

"Seventeen," Sergeant Schultz said in shock. "They were fine this morning."

"Cholera, you say? Isn't that..."

"A horrible gastrointestinal infection. Yes," Hogan said. "I'm worried for my men, Colonel Klink. Maybe we should get back to camp right away."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea, Hogan," Klink said apprehensively. "It's terribly contagious, isn't it? If we go back to camp now, who knows what we'll contract?"

"You're right as usual, Sir," Hogan said. "We can't expose an officer of your standing to this terrible scourge. The man who just delivered the _mens sana in corpore sano_ speech cannot be allowed to become _mens sana in corpore aeger_."

Klink stared at him, bewildered.

"_Aeger_ is sick or diseased, Sir. _Infirmus__, __aegrotus__, __causarius_. Sick, sick, sick. We can't have that, not for you. It would send the wrong message to the Hitler Youth."

Klink looked at him skeptically. "Hogan, why would you care what message it sends to the Hitler Youth?"

"I believe that children are our future, Sir. Teach them well and let them lead the way," Hogan said with the utmost sincerity.

Klink leaned in closer. "Hogan. They've been brainwashed. They turn in their own mothers and fathers," he whispered.

"We just have to show them all the beauty they possess inside, Sir. And we can't do that if you're dying of cholera. Look, I'll go back to camp and make sure everything is sanitized. Newkirk here is a genius with needle and thread. He can whip up some face masks, and we'll make sure nobody gets within six feet of anybody else. Once we have those precautions in place, we can reopen the camp, certainly by morning. You should stay at a hotel."

"How do I know this isn't a trick, Hogan?" Klink asked.

"Oh, sure, it's a hoax actually. A big lie intended to instill fear. Please, Colonel. How can you think so little of me? Your fellow officer! Well!" He crossed his arms and looked away, deeply offended.

"I think you've hurt his ffffeelings, Sir," Peter said. He had rejoined their little group, only without the wig and eyeglasses. He had his collar up to keep his face hidden.

"I do apologize, Hogan. Alright, your plan makes sense. Back to the camp with you and Newkirk. Schultz, return tonight with my overnight bag and meet me at the Hauserhof Hotel. And wear a face mask."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. Colonel Hogan, Newkirk, on our way. And Newkirk, use the men's room before we leave."

"I will Schultzie," Peter said. "Won't be a tic."

Klink watched as Newkirk wandered off on his own. "Why does he keep his collar up like that, Hogan?"

"Fashion," Colonel Hogan shrugged. "He keeps abreast of all the latest styles."

"I was quite a fashion plate in my youth, you know," Klink began to reminisce. Fortunately he didn't get far. Baroness Fiechter, who bore a striking resemblance to Mathilde Schnitzer, had led him away by the elbow to engage in a lively chat.

When Newkirk returned five minutes later with Herr Witman at his side, Colonel Klink was otherwise engaged and simply waved the party off.

"All ready," Peter said cheerfully.

"Alright, to the car now, and no monkey business," Schultz said. He led his prisoners out. They were in the carpark before he realized Herr Witman had followed them the whole way.

"Who is this man?" Schultz asked.

"Chief medical inspector for the city of Hammelburg," Herr Witman said.

"I thought I saw you on stage earlier," Schultz said skeptically.

"Well, the theme was a healthy mind in a healthy body," Herr Witman replied. "The connection is obvious."

"And you're coming with us?" Schultz inquired.

"Yes, of course. To direct the sanitization of the camp and the appropriate isolation measures. I've brought bleach," he said, holding up a bottle.

"Oh. That was quick," Schultz said.

"Yes, well Colonel Klink is an influential and important man in this city. Why else would he have delivered such an important speech?" Herr Witman said. "When he demanded help, help was provided at once."

"When did he demand help?" Schultz asked as he prodded his prisoners to get in the car.

"Blimey, Schultz, you need to stay awake at these things," Newkirk said. "We all heard it. Didn't we, Colonel Hogan?"

"Of course. Schultz, I hope this isn't a sign of cholera," Hogan fretted.

"Low blood sugar," Herr Witman said. "It's one of the first signs. We may be able to combat the illness by providing a snack. Would you like a chocolate bar, Sergeant?"

"I'm sure I'd feel much better if I had one right now," Sergeant Schultz said. He accepted the bar of chocolate, unwrapped it, and munched happily as he drove the trio back to Stalag 13.

**XXX**

Hogan and Witman were in the back seat, with Peter, as the junior member of their party, unfortunately pressed in between them.

He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, grateful that he wasn't in shorts on this occasion. He remembered the twinge he felt a few days earlier when his fresh cuts touched the leather. Underneath the wool flannel of his trousers, they were beginning to itch, as healing wounds will do. Of course, a properly lined pair of trousers wouldn't present this problem at all, Peter thought to himself. He'd have to remember that next time he helped out with theatrical costumes.

"How are your legs?" Herr Witman asked quietly as the car rumbled back toward Stalag 13.

"They're nnnno longer bleeding if that's wwwwhat you're asking," Peter grumbled.

"I'm terribly sorry. I was under surveillance. Any sign of weakness would have brought down unfortunate consequences for all of us," Herr Witman said.

"So I get to be the sacrificial lamb. Lovely," Peter said. The thought of it made him angry. He felt Colonel Hogan wrap an arm around him and he leaned in to the hold and stayed there for the remainder of the trip.

**XXX**

That evening in the tunnels of Stalag 13, Colonel Hogan went over the details of the intimidation racket in detail with Herr Witman. He helped Witman pass word to his wife that he had been detained overnight and said she was to provide no details, no matter who asked for them. Witman wasn't allowed to specify where he was being held; Hogan needed to observe her responses. That evening after rollcall he sent Carter and LeBeau to slip out of camp to conduct the surveillance.

They went as Gestapo agents; no German, of any political persuasion, would fail to understand what an 11 P.M. knock on the door meant, and only an idiot would attempt to ignore it. She had to answer the door, and she did.

The woman who came to the door was pretty, plump and of middle height, with brown hair just turning gray at the temples, and she had obviously been crying. Her nose was pink; her face was streaked and she clutched a damp handkerchief. She seemed startled, as anyone would, at the sight of two black-suited Gestapo men at her door, even though it was unthinkable that it would be anyone else at that hour.

"Frau Witman, wife of Heinz Witman? Where is your husband?" Carter demanded.

"I, I don't know his whereabouts," Frau Witman responded, clutching her hands together.

"What time does he normally come home?" Carter continued. "Or perhaps I should be asking what time he went out?"

"He left for work at the usual time today, before 8 A.M., and simply did not return. I'm beside myself, as you can see. I don't know any more," she said with as much bravery as she could muster.

"Did he advise you he would not be home? Did he attempt to get any messages to you?"

"No," she said simply. "I have heard nothing."

"Do you have children at home?"

"No, our daughter is with her grandmother this evening. Our sons are grown," she said.

Carter and LeBeau looked at each other and exchanged a subtle nod. Good. It would be easier to transport one person than two.

"We heard about it from Mrs. Swallow, of course. She is a gossip," LeBeau said.

Frau Witman looked started for moment. Then she replied, "She prattles all day long. If nobody will listen, she talks to herself and cannot keep quiet," completing the code exchange. "Who are you, and what do you know about my husband?" she asked.

"We're friends, and you need to come with us to see Papa Bear," Carter replied. "You'll need to pack an overnight case, but you'll be safe."

* * *

**The code words, starting with "Mrs. Swallow is a gossip," are from a German children's song ("Frau Schwalbe ist 'ne Schwätzerin, Sie schwatzt den ganzen Tag) which dates to the 1800s.**


	12. Chapter 11: Hannelore

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 11: HANNELORE**

From inside the tunnels, Kinch could hear the faint reverberation of feet approaching overhead. Even before the tree-trunk entrance lifted up, he had counted three sets. Unless something had gone very wrong, that meant LeBeau and Carter were returning to camp with Frau Witman in their custody.

He checked his watch. It was 1 o'clock in the morning. He exited his radio room and headed down the short passage that led to their "guest accommodations" – one large room that could accommodate up to six travelers, and a smaller room equipped with two decent cots that was set aside for women and VIPs.

"Herr Witman, they're here. They're on their way down," Kinch stage-whispered as he rapped on the door jamb to the smaller room. Not that there was a door; only a place where one could have gone, where a curtain hung to allow occupants slight privacy.

He stood by long enough to see underground agent sit up in bed and nod sleepily. Satisfied, Kinch headed down another tunnel to press the button he and Baker had rigged to Colonel Hogan's quarters. It didn't make noise; it only vibrated a wooden leg of his bunk, yet somehow the Colonel never slept through it.

Moments later, the tunnel was abuzz. Carter had jumped to the floor to help Frau Witman down, with LeBeau assisting her from behind. The rails that made up the steps weren't easily navigated by a middle-aged lady in a skirt and heels. By the time Frau Witman was steady on her feet down below, Colonel Hogan was on the scene, arms crossed as he sized up the situation. His shadow, Newkirk, had followed behind him. He stood rubbing his eyes and yawning as he shivered slightly in his nightshirt and combat boots, then got busy helping LeBeau and Carter remove and put away their costumes.

"Berthe, my darling," Herr Witman said as he crossed the floor with open arms. Frau Witman's chin trembled as she fell into his embrace. "I know what you saw, but you must trust me. I can explain everything."

"They've already told me that there is more going on that meets the eye, Heinz," Frau Witman replied. She straightened her back and kissed her husband's cheek, mindful that she had an audience. She rested a hand on her husband's chest and offered a wan smile to Hogan and Kinch. "You don't even have to explain further. I believe you," she said firmly as her husband looked into her eyes, softly stroking her cheek and hair.

Hogan stepped forward. "It's important that you know details, Frau Witman. Herr Monck, the new inspector general for the Hammelburg Gestapo unit, has identified you as a member of the Underground, but it unaware of your husband's role. From his actions, it appears he's keeping this information to himself for now so that he can exploit your husband's concern for you," he said, casting a glance at Herr Witman. Inside, Hogan was cursing the man for not speaking up sooner when the situation would have been easier to manage, but he couldn't help but be touched by Herr Witman's tender affection for his wife. He was doing what any husband would have done—protecting his loved ones.

"Can we get him off our scent and return home soon, Papa Bear?" Frau Witman asked.

Hogan shook his head. "I can't see how that would be possible. Monck knows too much about you already, and it wouldn't take a huge leap for him to implicate your husband, too," he said. "Plus, there's the Burgemeister to think about; he's clearly the one who sold you down the river. We're going to have to relocate you. Switzerland or England—it's still up in..."

Hogan trailed off in mid-sentence as he noticed the look of shock that had crossed Frau Witman's face. She looked at her husband.

"Johan?" she said almost under her breath. "He betrayed _me_?"

"I'm afraid so, my dear," Herr Witman said. "He's been seen meeting with Herr Monck. Papa Bear and his men have been investigating."

"There's no doubt that he's the weak link," Hogan said. "He met with Monck in Dusseldorf twice before the man even took his post here. We've intercepted several messages since you fingered him. He sold you out."

"But not my husband? He is protecting you?" Frau Witman looked baffled.

"Yes, that seems to be the case. We're not sure why," Hogan admitted.

Frau Witman shook her head in astonishment, then spoke anxiously. "Heinz, Hannelore is with Johan and Mama."

"Hold up," Hogan said. "Who's Hannelore? And whose mother are we talking about?"

"Hannelore is our daughter. She's 13 years old, our youngest child by a decade," Herr Witman said. "She is with my mother tonight, Berthe?"

Frau Witman nodded and grasped her husband's hand.

Herr Witman turned to Hogan with a grave expression on his face. "My mother lives with my brother at the Burgemeister's official residence. Papa Bear, we cannot go anywhere without Hannelore, or without Mama."

"Witman, be sensible. A 13-year-old may be able to make the journey, but your mother? How old is she?" Hogan said.

"Eighty-one," Herr Witman said. "Please, Papa Bear. Separating her from Hannelore would kill her. She dotes on the child, and Hannelore looks after her."

Hogan shook his head angrily. "No. It's impossible, and you don't get to call the shots, Witman," he said. "We wouldn't be in this spot if you'd clued us into your meetings with Monck in the first place. Newkirk?"

"Sir?" the young Englishman replied.

"Get your shorts on. Arno and Uncle Willi have a job to do."

"At this hour of the n-night, Sir? Wwwwouldn't my blacks be better?"

"Nope. You're a Hitler Youth on a mission. Kinch, get on the horn to Schnitzer. Tell him we need Anna to meet us in two hours in front of the home of the Burgemeister in her _Deutsche M__ä__del_ get-up."

Hogan crossed over to Kinch's radio room and gestured at a drawer. Kinch required no explanation; a moment later, Hogan returned with paper and pencil, which he placed in front of Frau Witman. "Take a letter," he said.

**XXX**

An hour and a half later, in the wee hours of the night, Peter and Anja stood on the Burgemeister's doorstep. They looked at one another and nodded. Peter thumped on the door hard, then rang the bell.

Lights flicked on inside the house, and slowly the door creaked open. The Burgemeister, mustachioed and dressed in a gray silk robe, appeared at the door, eyeglasses perched at the end of his nose. He found himself facing a mere boy and girl, standing at attention with arms crossed behind their backs.

"What are you children doing here at this time of night?" he demanded.

Peter, slipping into his role as Arno, answered sternly. "We are doing our duty, of course. I am Senior Cadre Unit Leader Becker and this is Senior Squad Leader Becker. Joint anti-aircraft field training for the _Jungebund _began nearly an hour ago. It has come to our attention that one trainee is missing. If Hannelore Witman expects to advance to _Bund Deutscher Mädel_ upon her fourteenth birthday, she needs to undertake her searchlight training."

"At this time of night?" the Burgemeister protested.

"When else? Searchlights would hardly work in the daytime," Anja, in the guise of Leisel, replied imperiously. "Knowing of your position, Herr Burgemeister, and that of Hannelore's father, we can overlook her tardiness this once. But she must come with us."

Arno handed him a paper. "This is elite training, intended for our most promising members. Her instructions to report for training are here and everything is in order."

The Burgemeister looked over the document, then studied the boy and handed the paper back. "Step inside," he said.

"We prefer to remain outside in the fresh air at all times," Arno replied, turning his head away arrogantly. "Clear lungs make for pure minds." As he said it, he desperately craved a cigarette.

Five minutes later, a very confused Hannelore was being bundled to the door by her uncle. "Go, child," he said softly. "It's an honor to be selected for this training."

The girl was about to put up a protest when a Gestapo man holding a flashlight approached the front door and startled everyone with a loud declaration.

"What business do you have here at this time of night? Speak up!" he snapped.

Arno coolly handed him the document. "We are escorting Hannelore Witman to her post at the anti-aircraft training session for youth," he said. "It is being held in the field adjacent to the Kaiserplatz."

The Gestapo man examined the paper. "I see. Everything is in order. Carry on, but do so quietly. People are sleeping in these houses," he said. The black-haired, fair-skinned main bowed slightly from the waist at the Burgemeister and descended the four steps to the pavement. He turned down the street to the left and walked on purposefully, alert to everything around him.

Moments later, Peter and Anja followed him, with Hannelore between them. As they turned the street corner, they caught up with "Uncle Willi."

"I think that should have persuaded him," Hogan said. "Everyone in the car."

"Where are you taking me?" Hannelore asked. "I don't know you from the _Jungm__ä__delbund_," she said to Anja. "But you look familiar," she said to Peter. "Are you that boy my father paddled? I was there! I saw that!"

Peter was beginning to answer, but Anja cut him off. "You don't have anything to be afraid of. We're taking you to your parents. I have a message from your mother," she said, pulling out the note that Frau Witman had scratched out in the tunnel when the girl broke away.

"After her," Hogan said.

Peter took off and quickly had the girl in a Nelson hold, encircling her from under her arms and securing her neck.

"Get your hands off me!" she shouted, rapping her ankle around his and bringing them both crashing to the ground as Hogan and Anja caught up.

She was surrounded. Running was no longer an option, so the child slumped her shoulders in surrender.

"Stop," Anja said, holding her firmly by the arms. "Stop at once. You know me. My uncle takes care of your dog. I gave Snuffy his rabies shot." Hannelore looked at Anja and recognition began to dawn. "We are on your side. We're looking out for you so that you can be with your Mutti and Papa. Do you understand?"

"Ruddy short trousers," Peter said as he stood. "I'm not wearing them again." His right knee was a scraped and bloody mess, but he shook it off and took Hannelore by the hand. "She's right," he said. "You're not safe where you are. We'll get you to your mum and dad and I promise everything will be better. Alright?"

Hannelore looked from Peter to Anja and nodded solemnly. She wasn't sure why she trusted them, but she did.

In the car, Hannelore sat between Peter and Anja in the back seat. They looked over her at one another, longing to be closer. As they rumbled along through the night, both Peter and Anja spoke softly and kindly to the girl, and eventually she laid her head on Peter's shoulder and closed her eyes. As Hannelore began to doze, Anja scooted closer to both of them, taking Peter's hand across the girl's lap.

**XXX**

Down in the tunnels under Stalag 13, the Witmans were joyously reunited with their daughter as Colonel Hogan and Kinch took notes and explained next steps. In the sewing room where Peter prepared costumes, Anja had arrived with a small first aid kit that Kinch had handed to her. She took out the hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls and sized up Peter's knee. It was cut, but not badly enough to require stitches.

"It's going to sting," she said as she applied the peroxide to his wound. And it did. He winced as she gently dabbed and cleaned the injury and then fanned it dry. She applied a bandage to it, then smiled up at him. "There. All better," she said, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of an oil lamp.

"My mum always kissed it better," Peter said softly with a mischievous grin lifting up the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, did she?" Anja asked. "Well, then." She leaned in and touched her soft lips to his. She could feel his heart thumping as they pressed closer, could feel his fingers wind through her hair. His hands caressed her neck and shoulder as he kissed her feverishly, finally tasting her sweetness.

Then, behind them, they heard a shuffle of footsteps. It was Colonel Hogan, smiling down at them as they separated.

"Sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asked. "Anja, I'm sorry to tell you, but your uncle is waiting for you outside of camp. I'll take you to him."

"I can take her, Sir," Peter replied.

"I'm sure you could, but we need to make this snappy. Next time, Peter," he said. "Come on, Anja, let's get going."

She held on to Peter's hand for a moment and then, impulsively, kissed him again, hard and long. When she pulled back, he was panting and she was smiling triumphantly. "I'm ready to go, Papa Bear," she said as she stood and smoothed her skirt.

"You can see each other in a day or two," Colonel Hogan said, winking at Peter over Anja's shoulder as he escorted her to the ladder and into the last hour of darkness before dawn.


	13. Chapter 12: Getting Closer

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 12: GETTING CLOSER**

The next evening after rollcall, Hogan took Peter with him to Schnitzer's for a short meeting. With the Underground shut down, Schnitzer, Mathilde and Anja were, for the moment, the only trusted agents in the network outside of Stalag 13. There was still ordinary business to conduct and there were plans to make for the Witmans. It would be several days before the weather and moon phases would permit their departure.

In the meantime, Schnitzer had come into possession of a stack of railway cargo manifests that needed to be analyzed for London, and together they reviewed them while Peter photographed them. Schnitzer and Hogan then moved onto the pressing issue of how to explain the Witmans' sudden absence, remove them from town, and cover their tracks. And they needed to compare notes on the Burgemeister and his latest interactions with Monck, because there were details that still didn't make sense.

Peter and Anja were needed for parts of the discussion, but not all of it. Once dismissed, they busied themselves in the kitchen, where Mathilde stuffed them with the most delicate crêpes Peter had ever tasted, filled with ham and cheese. He felt guilty, but he thought he might actually like it better than anything LeBeau had ever made for him. They chatted amiably about everything and anything, from Mickey Mouse cartoons to swing music to their hometowns.

After they ate, they retreated to a small greenroom at the side of the house where Mathilde grew herbs, vegetables and flowers year-round. Mathilde had asked them to water the tomatoes and radishes and pick some for LeBeau. They discharged their duties quickly, then stood by the back door, looking out as a light rain fell. Gradually they touched, and gradually they kissed, and gradually they held one another close, gently exploring the mysteries of mutual attraction. Peter ran his hand through Anja's hair and down her neck, and she sighed breathlessly. His lips followed where his hand had been, soft and wet on her creamy smooth skin. He inhaled her scent of jasmine and rose, with the slightest hint of starch.

They were trying to behave. They both knew adults were nearby. But their bodies overruled their minds, and soon they were in a frantic clutch, pleasurably grappling with one another as the rain spattered the glass walls of the hothouse. Peter put one hand behind Anja's head to kiss her deeply on the lips, and his other hand found its way onto her soft cotton blouse, stroking a bullseye around her breast until he could feel the center rise. She tugged his civilian shirt out of his waistband and ran her hand over his stomach, making him moan. As Peter pressed closer to Anja, his body announced its aspirations, and hers thrilled at the knowledge that he was responding that way to her.

But it was all very new to them, and they fondled and fumbled, tempted but afraid to go any further than a hand on a clothed breast or a bare belly. And all too soon, they heard footsteps approaching. It was Colonel Hogan, announcing that it was time to return to camp. He sized up the disheveled duo and quickly drew his own conclusions. "Tuck your shirt in, Peter," he said. "Don't let Schnitzer see you that way."

Peter did as he was directed, then sweetly kissed Anja, gazing into her eyes as he held her hand, and saw his adoration for her reflected back at him. He walked out into the kitchen hand-in-hand with her, hoping the arousal he was experiencing wasn't obvious to anyone else. Hogan took it up on himself to quickly tame Peter's tousled hair with a quick finger comb, accompanied by a sharp look of dismay. Soon it was goodnight, and Hogan and Peter were in Schnitzer's vehicle, rumbling their way back to camp. Schnitzer, thankfully, hadn't noticed anything more than a little hand-holding puppy love.

The whole way back, Peter felt the condemnation of Hogan's silence. As they descended into the tunnel, he finally spoke up.

"You d-d-didn't have to bring me, you know," he told Colonel Hogan. "You could have brought Louis to t-t-take the photos, or you could have d-done that yourself."

"Don't tempt me. I'm already starting to question my judgment," Hogan said. As they reached the bottom, Hogan pulled Peter aside. "Look," he said. "I know you're attracted to Anja. I know she's a great girl. And I want you two to be comfortable together so that you can work together." He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and leaned in. "But you have to pace yourself, Peter. She's Schnitzer's niece. If he catches you getting too friendly, there could be hell to pay."

"We're not allowed to kiss?" Peter said irritably.

"I didn't say that. I said pace yourself. If you don't understand what that means, talk to LeBeau," Hogan said. He did not want to have this conversation with a teenage boy; it was too damned awkward.

There were few things that got Peter's back up quicker than the suggestion that he was somehow too young to understand something.

"You're supposed to talk to me. You're my bleeding guardian," Peter said boldly. "What is it you don't want me to do?"

Hogan looked at him with concern. "Peter, just don't rush things, OK? Anja is a nice girl. Treat her like a lady. Now get up to bed. We have a full day tomorrow."

Peter left, feeling cross. Anja _was_ a lady, and he wasn't doing anything that she didn't want to do too. Adults were so suffocating with their warnings and their rules. And he had restrained himself. There were things he wanted to do, things he was more than ready to do at eighteen, which he hadn't done. He was tired of being bossed around by everyone. The only person who understood him at all was Anja.

Hogan watched him climb the ladder and realized he was starting to sound just like his old man. He'd now mastered the art of making vague references to ambiguous behaviors and nebulous risks.

The answer he should have given Peter was simple: He didn't want them getting physically intimate. They had work to do and it would only get in the way.

And as soon as he thought it, he felt guilty. They were two sweet kids. They were attracted to one another, and that was as it should be. And after all, Peter was eighteen, and Anja was twenty. He had been much farther down the road to intimacy at eighteen than Peter was. He didn't begrudge either of them the chance to fulfill their adult needs.

But that was irrelevant, Hogan told himself, because times were different. They had a war to fight. And by law, he reminded himself, Anja had reached the age of majority at sixteen—but Peter still had three years to go.

And truth be told, Hogan had already had his hands full. Carter and his puppy love break up with Mary Jane had been an ordeal. And at the other extreme, there was Olsen, with his frequent dalliances with the Fräuleins of Hammelburg, and the subsequent scrapes with their fathers. One of the last things Hogan needed on his watch was another unplanned pregnancy. And the very last thing he needed, at a time when their Underground cell was severely compromised, was a very angry Uncle Oskar.

**XXX**

"He's mooning over Anja again," Garlotti said. Peter was sitting at the barracks table the next morning, his chin in his hand, and a soft expression in his eyes. "What do you like about her, Pete?"

Peter shrugged. "Everything, I suppose. She's pr-pr-pretty. Her hands are so ssssoft. And she reminds me of being with my ssssisters."

Olsen snickered. "Well, that's real romantic, pal."

Peter could feel himself flushing. That hadn't come out right. "I j-j-j-just mean she's easy to talk to, Olsen, like my sssisters are. Because, you know, it's not always easy ffffffor me to t-t-t-t-talk to someone new."

"Yeah, I get that, Newkirk. Sorry, I didn't mean to get you all flustered. She's got a nice figure, and I'm not talking about her hands." He grinned as he made a Figure 8 with his hands.

"She looks like a rainbow," Peter said dreamily. "All those lovely c-colors she wears. She's very talented. She makes all her own clothes, you know."

"See? You've got things in common. You both sew!" Carter was smiling cheerfully, oblivious to the snorts coming from men around the room.

"Shut up, Carter. I learnt to ssssew because I nnnneeded cl-clothes," Peter said. He lit a cigarette, inhaled it fiercely and appraised how to save face with his audience. He knew what would work.

"Like Olsen says, she has a nice ffffigure. And her bbbb-bristols…" He held cupped his hands and mid-chest and jiggled them up and down. "Very nice indeed."

He dipped his head in shame as soon as he said it. He knew he shouldn't talk about Anja that way, even if he did find her breasts exciting. If a lad talked about one of his sisters that way, he'd be at his throat. He flicked his eyes up and caught a glimpse of LeBeau shaking his head in disapproval. Embarrassed, he tipped his head down for just a moment before forcing himself to smile at Olsen and the other men who were listening in.

"Whew. I noticed," Olsen said. "Did you kiss her yet, Newkirk?"

"Of course I did," Peter said.

"Did you slip her the tongue?" Harper asked.

Peter simply looked stunned. "Hey, hey, back off, Harper," Garlotti said.

But one voice couldn't drown out the wolf whistles that filled the room. LeBeau dropped a pot, which clanged on the floor. Just then, Kinch emerged from Hogan's office and took in the scene. LeBeau exchanged a quick look with him, subtly nodding at Newkirk. Kinch wasn't sure what was up, but he recognized the direction to remove Peter from the scene.

"Hey, Newkirk, I need you down in the tunnel for a few minutes," he said. He crossed the room and dropped a hand on his shoulder.

"Man, we were just getting ready to hear about Peter's adventures at second base. Or was it third base?" Mills put in.

"Third base? Him?" Harper scoffed.

"Are we talking about the same guy? Because I thought his _balls_ just dropped last week!" That was Bartoli, and the laughter reached a crescendo.

"I don't, I don't, I don't, I don't play baseball," Peter said as he got to his feet. He had no idea how the topic had turned to baseball, but he knew it was meant to be embarrassing, and that was working. Now the room was echoing with laughter, and Peter was blushing.

"Well, there's two kinds of baseball, Newkirk. There's softball and there's hardball," Addison said, pumping his hand and triggering another outburst of laughter. Peter was on Kinch's heels and down the ladder before it got any worse.

XXX

Kinch was explaining things crisply. "Alright, let me break it down for you. First base is kissing. Second base is touching each other above the waist, either over the clothes or underneath them. Third base is touching each other below the waist, over or under. Home plate is going all the way."

"All the way where?" Peter asked, looking mystified. Suddenly realization dawned. "Oh! Oh, Kinch, I haven't done that with Anja and I wouldn't tell people if I had."

"That's what I think too, Peter. I have too much respect for the women I date to talk about them like that. But I want you to know what those guys are saying so that you understand how crude it would be to answer. You can walk away when they get like that."

The bunkbed ladder mechanism ground into action again, and LeBeau scurried down.

"Pierre, really?" he said, lacing into his friend. "Why would you talk about Anja that way? 'Her bristols'? You knew better."

"Uh, uh," Peter replied. "Uh, uh, uh…" He was sputtering and turning red.

"Ease up on him, LeBeau," Kinch said. "Give him a chance to breathe. I don't think he knew what a lot of that stuff meant."

"I know what all of it means," Peter snapped. "I j-j-j-just don't know the bleeding baseball wwwwwords you Yanks use. And, and, and… they were teasing me."

"Teasing you about your stutter again? I swear to God…" Kinch began. He was on his feet and looking ready to knock heads together.

"No, nnnot about that. About ssssaying she, she reminds me of mm, mmmy sisters. And that her clothes are pretty. And that she sews them herself. And then Carter said…"

"…that you can both sew so that's something you have in common. And everyone laughed, and then it spiraled out of control." LeBeau's voice was full of dismay, but at least he understood. "Alright, Pierre. I know you were in difficult spot. They were pushing you and you were embarrassed. But you have to remember to always, always be a gentleman when you care about a young lady."

"I know, Louis, I promise, I shouldn't have said that. And I, I, I haven't done much but k-k-kiss her and hold hands and, and, and I had my hand here." He demonstrated with a hand on his own chest. "But I didn't go under her drrrress and, and, and I definitely… uh… uh… but, but, but… Was that fff, fffirst base?"

"That's second base, pal," Kinch said. He looked sympathetically at Peter, recognizing how overwhelmed and confused he was. "Look, Pete, it's normal behavior for boys and girls to, um, explore. You might even both be ready to go further at some point. But that doesn't give you the right to talk about her."

"Pierre, a gentleman does not throw around intimate observations about his lady friend," LeBeau said decisively. "If you have questions or need advice, then you come to me, _compris_? Or to Kinch," he said with a wave to his friend. "He is a gentleman too."

"Yes, Louis. I'm really sorry." The sting of LeBeau's disappointment was only second to how disappointed he was in himself. He cared for Anja too much to talk about her in that way.

"I know you're sorry," LeBeau said, laying a hand on his arm. "It's easy to get pulled in when they're all talking like that. But Pierre, remember, only boys talk about girls that way. It's not how a real man like you or me or Kinch behaves."

Peter was biting his lip, trying to stay in control of his emotions.

Kinch smiled at him. "I think it's great that Anja reminds you of your sisters, Peter. That says a lot. It says you would protect her with your whole heart."

"I would!" Peter replied forcefully. "I definitely would." He stopped and took a long breath. "I can talk to her the way I can talk to Mavis and Nora and the rest of the girls. And, and I don't stammer as much around her."

"That means you're comfortable with her, like you are with us," LeBeau said. "It means you are becoming very close friends, and remember what I told you—friendship is the root of love. Even romantic love."

"Especially romantic love," Kinch said. "There has to be friendship and respect."

Peter was nodding solemnly, holding himself with his arms criss-crossing his stomach and his eyes a little wet.

"Yeah, you get it," Kinch said softly, pulling Peter closer to him by the neck, hugging him sideways and jostling his shoulder. In a moment, Peter was smiling and laughing with relief as he leaned into Kinch's strong hold. He was understood and forgiven.

LeBeau looked on, beaming with approval. Peter really was growing into a fine young man.

**XXX**

Back in the barracks room, Carter was facing off with Harper, Addison and Mills.

"If Colonel Hogan was here, he'd have your heads for that. You need to quit teasing Newkirk. He can't help it that he's younger," Carter said. "You guys were eighteen a decade ago. I'll bet you were still trying to figure girls out too."

"Like you are," Harper sneered. "And you're twenty-five."

"Yeah, like I am. I don't have any intention of getting intimate with a girl, and if I did I wouldn't blab it to you guys. I'm saving myself for marriage."

Harper, Addison, Mills and few other men around the room sputtered.

"I thought you weren't a virgin, Carter," Harper laughed. "You made a big point of saying that last year."

"Yeah, well, first of all it's none of your business, and secondly I'm embarrassed, but only because I lied about it. Yes, I am a virgin, and I'm planning to stay that way until I get married. And yeah, I've been tempted a bunch of times, but I made a choice. A promise."

Across the room, Foster spoke up. "You're not the only one, Carter. I believe the same thing."

"Um, me too," Garlotti said. "I've already lapsed a few times, but I talked to my priest and got absolution and I promised myself I wouldn't do that again." He shrugged. "It's my upbringing. I'm 31, and I'm still waiting until I'm married. It doesn't mean I don't fantasize," he added.

"…Or jerk off," Mills said. "I share a bunkbed with you."

"Yeah, fine. So?" Garlotti said. "Every guy in this room does that." He steeled him for what he needed to say next.

"Peter is eighteen and he can make his own decisions now. But we're all kind of raising him, you know? Especially Hogan and LeBeau, but all of us have a part to play. And we can raise him to be the kind of guy who treats women with respect," Garlotti said.

"So help out or back off," Carter added.

Olsen stood up. Carter cringed. It was hard to know where Olsen was going to come down on any argument. He had a lot of influence over everyone, and he was one of the most romantically experienced guys in the room, with a bevy of girlfriends in town. He enjoyed teasing Peter about Anja. On the other hand, his teasing had been pretty mild, and he backed down the instant he saw Peter was uncomfortable.

"Addison, Mills, Harper, and the rest of you jerks, shut the hell up," Olsen said. "There isn't a guy in this room who would want his sisters or girlfriend talked about the way you guys are talking."

He looked around with that owl-like intensity of his, sizing up every one of his listeners, then continued.

"New rule for this barracks: You want to talk about girls in general? Fine. Sex? Fine, Peter's old enough now to hear it. But no naming names. No shaming girls. And no teasing Peter or anyone else for being able to keep it in their pants just because you can't. You understand me, or do we have to bring Colonel Hogan into this?"

There were murmurs of assent from Addison, Mills, Harper, Bartoli, Belknap, and the rest of the hyenas.

"Good," Olsen said decisively. "Peter may be eighteen, but you need to grow up more than he does."

* * *

**There is a bonus chapter, "Thinking Ahead," which appears on AO3 but not here. It brings the overall rating of the story a little closer to M than to the T rating I prefer to use here. It's not essential to understanding the story. It's a somewhat delicate discussion about something Louis thinks Peter needs to know if he's going to get serious with Anja.**


	14. Chapter 13: In the Sewing Hut

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 13: IN THE SEWING HUT**

Peter had a job to do that evening. The Witmans were being dispatched north to the Baltic, and from there they would be transported to England. The first leg of the trip required travel clothes. Herr Witman's attire was fine; Frau Witman only needed a coat, which Peter could easily provide with a few adjustments to something he had in stock.

Hannelore, on the other hand, had nothing but a German Maidens uniform. She needed everything from scratch.

She was thirteen, and blossoming just enough to be embarrassed by it, which in turn embarrassed Peter. He took her measurements under the watchful eye of her mother and LeBeau, who stayed to "assist" at Peter's insistence. Peter was used to masking his feelings, and he tried to sound confident as he snapped out the measurements to LeBeau, but he was stammering badly.

"Height, fffffour feet, eleven inches. Neck, twelve and a half," he said. He stopped with the tape measure at the next point and took a deep breath. "B-b-b-b-bust, th-th-thirty one. Wwwwaist, twenty-three and a …th-three quarters."

He paused again and held the tape measure out to her mother and showed her what to do. "Hip, th-thirty one and a quarter," he said, turning pink as he waved her toward another body part. "Thighs, seventeen and a half."

He took the tape back, looking like he wanted to die and quickly knocked out remaining measurements—cross-shoulder, cross-back, front of chest, neck to front waist, neck to back waist, waist to knee. Then he stopped before he got to the dreaded crotch measurement. This much, he decided, was going to have to suffice. He gathered up his notes and headed into his sewing room, where he slumped on a chair for moment before pulling out tracing paper to make his patterns.

Peter was deep in the process of sketching out a skirt, two blouses and a pinafore when he heard a rustle behind him. He turned, looked, and sighed. It was her. Hannelore. She had blue-grey eyes and dark blond hair in a long braid down her back. She had her father's round face and her mother's sharp nose, he decided.

"What are you after?" Peter asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt about the interruption. Women's clothes were not his strong suit, and he was a perfectionist who liked his creations to look sharp and presentable. He was having a devil of a time figuring out the pleats, but it wouldn't do to leave them off. He'd noticed all the girls wore them. The only consolation he had was that at least Hannelore's clothing had the advantage of being rather small.

"I can sew," she said, coming over to the table where he working. "You're making your own patterns?" she said in awe.

"We don't have many little girls coming through this place," Peter said. His attempt to add a sneer to "little girls" instead resulted in a rather wet sound, and he hoped he wasn't blushing again.

"I'm thirteen," Hannelore snapped with an irritated toss of her hair. "I'm not little. I'm practically a lady."

"Oh, really?" Peter said, barely holding back his amusement. "That's not what your measurements say."

"You're a very rude boy," she replied. Then she laid a finger on the pattern. "I'll need darts right here," she said, pointing to the front of the blouses.

"No you won't," Peter laughed.

"If you want them to last, I will," Hannelore said. She paused. "Who knows when I'll get new clothes again. England's poor."

"Yes, it is, thanks to you lot," Peter grumbled. He looked sideways at her. "Do you know any English?"

"No. Teach me some?"

"I can't teach you English," Peter replied. "You don't want to sound common." Or like a stammering idiot, he added silently.

"You talk to your girlfriend in English," Hannelore said. "She's pretty."

"Yes, she is. And yes, I do, sometimes," Peter said. "Where are your parents? Shouldn't you be with them?"

"They're talking to Papa Bear and **he** told me to come see you. **He** was excited when I told him I knew how to sew." She crossed her arms. "Plus, they're saying things they don't want me to hear, about my uncle. The Bürgemeister," she said with a smarty-pants undertone. Apparently she did not think much of him.

Peter let out a big sigh. That was something he understood all too well. "Fine, sit there, alright? Do you know how to cut out a pattern without messing it up?"

"Of course I do," Hannelore said defiantly.

"Right, what else can you do? Can you thread a needle?"

She rolled her eyes at that. "Yes," she sighed.

"Can you do a back stitch?" She nodded. "Baste? Slip stitch?"

"Yes, I can," she said proudly.

He sized her up carefully. "Buttons?"

"Don't be ridiculous! I can sew on a button."

"Button hole?"

Her face fell at that. No, she wasn't there yet.

Peter looked at her and took pity. He'd been a beginner once too, but he was a very fast learner, and he'd spent eight hours a day at it when he was in the approved school. Not that he had much choice.

"Well, you'll be able to help me quite a bit, and I'll teach you how to make a buttonhole, alright?" he said kindly. She nodded eagerly and watched intently as he finished tracing the blouse pattern. Peter gave her bolts of cotton in white, a creamy yellow check, and tan to choose among. She chose white and yellow.

Peter nodded his approval. "The tan is horrid. I like the white and the check. It's a pity we don't have any pink. It would be very pretty on you."

"It's my favorite color," Hannelore said as she took up some pins to hold down the pattern.

Peter sighed. "Mine too. Someday I'm going to make myself a navy blue suit and wear it with a pink hairline-stripe shirt and pink socks and a blue-and-white rep tie with a bit of pink running through it. I think that would be very smart. And I might have a green Bengal stripe shirt to alternate with that navy suit. With green socks, of course. And a green and grey herringbone tie."

"Sehr modisch," Hannelore said with raised eyebrows and a little grin teasing the corners of her mouth.

"Nein, schick," Peter corrected her with a genuine smile. He shrugged. "I like nice clothes. Stylish and tasteful. Can you say that?"

"Stylish and tasteful," Hannelore said. "Nice clothes."

After that, the clothes came together quickly, and by the end of the evening they were chatting cheerfully in simple English sentences.

* * *

_Hannelore says Peter's clothing tastes are "very modern," to which he replies, "No, chic."_


	15. Chapter 14: Schnitzer Takes the Wheel

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 14: SCHNITZER TAKES THE WHEEL  
**

**March 29, 1944**

Peter had eased himself off his bunk at the usual horrid time—6 A.M.—despite having been up until the wee hours putting the finishing touches on the Witmans' travel wardrobe. He'd thrown in a few extra things for Hannelore—a spare blouse and skirt with a burgundy fabric she chose, and a blue gingham dress with a white belt and collar that was to be a complete surprise. He remembered what it was like to be thirteen and have nothing but the clothes on your back. He'd sworn a long time ago that when he grew up he'd have all the clothes he wanted, and he thought Hannelore would feel the same too.

He wandered off to the latrine with a cigarette in hand, coughing as he went. He felt run down. He'd been working hard, with one night mission after another for a solid week, along with long hours in his sewing hut.

Last night Peter had let himself fall behind because he was so busy entertaining Hannelore. She'd made the awful mistake of assuming he could not dance, and he'd straightened her out right away, whirling her around the tunnels in some sort of manic English version of a polka until Kinch prevailed on them to stop. When they got through laughing, he persuaded her to teach him the _Grossvater Tanz_, which he'd seen performed in Hammelburg. He thought he'd like to surprise Anja with that. Just thinking about her brought a smile to his lips. He hoped he and Anja would be part of the mission to move the Witmans to the coast. He hadn't seen her in a day and a half and he was already missing her.

Being with Hannelore was fun, in a very different way. It reminded him of being at home, when he was a big brother to two little boys instead of being everyone's little brother. He liked being older. He liked being looked up to. And he noticed that when he spoke English to Hannelore, he hardly stammered at all. He spoke to her in his best English, rounding his vowels just so and pronouncing his H's, because he didn't her want her saddled with a Cockney accent.

The Witmans were leaving in two nights, and Peter was suddenly quite sure he would miss Hannelore. But perhaps he'd see her again, he realized, back in England, if this bloody war ever ended. He'd had fun swinging her around, teaching her things, and teasing her just a little.

But the whole time, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if it was Anja he was playing with, Anja he was dancing with, Anja he was spending hours with. He wanted to be with her more than anything. He mentally sorted through the cotton fabrics he had in stock, and his mind settled on two—one red with subtle black and gray polka dots, the other red with tiny white flowers speckled everywhere. He could see the dress he wanted to make for her.

**XXX**

There was no excuse for staying in bed late in the middle of the week, but Anja hadn't slept well, and now she was coughing and sneezing too. A stupid head cold, she thought as she dangled her feet above the floor of the snug bedroom in the attic of the Schnitzer home.

The house had two bigger bedrooms that stood empty, and Uncle Oskar and Aunt Mathilde had offered them to her. But she had always stayed in this room on her visits to Hammelburg, and the other bedrooms were haunted, anyway. One belonged to her older cousins, Albrecht and Friedrich; the other belonged to the younger pair, Hugo and Viktor. She had, of course, nicknamed them "Les Misérables," and that would teach them to call her Lämmchen. Grandfather's large bedroom was in between the boys', sort of a neutral zone between warring factions.

The boys. They were scattered now. Albrecht was in the Luftwaffe somewhere in France. Hugo, blind in one eye from a shooting accident when he was 16, was guarding Gypsies and Communists in a camp somewhere in Poland and, she was sure, slipping them food. Friedrich and Viktor were soldiers, and presumed dead. Aunt Mathilde held out hope, but Uncle Oskar was a realist, he said, and he mourned his sons deeply.

The boys. She smiled at the thought of their adventures together. She had tagged along every summer, starting out far behind the pack, but catching up with them quickly. By the time she was 7 or 8, she was part of every bit of mischief they got into, whether it was climbing trees or building forts or hunting for squirrels.

The boys. She wondered if they would like Peter. She imagined him scampering along with them. He was a little younger, after all, and she supposed there would have been a time when he would have scrambled to keep up. But it wouldn't have lasted. He was clever and determined. He would have been the rascal _they_ all had to keep up with. Yes, she was sure they would have liked him, which was a bloody good thing, because she certainly did.

She sneezed hard three times, then plopped back down on her bed, her soft flannel nightgown feeling just a bit sticky against her skin on a spring morning. It was warming up outside, she thought, as she ran a hand over her body. She rubbed absently at her breast, remembering how it had felt when Peter had done that. She concentrated on it a little more, observing how she suddenly felt a little throbbing and warmth in her midsection. She ran her hand lower, noticing the moistness gathering there, and smiled. Thinking of Peter did things to her. And she was quite sure that she did things to him, she thought, her eyes dancing at the memory.

She laid on her bed daydreaming about kissing Peter, feeling his hands explore her, feeling his strong arms hold her, when she heard a rap at the door. Aunt Mathilde popped her head in. With a smile, she entered, bearing coffee and eggs, bacon and toast.

"I heard you sneezing and coughing, so I didn't want to wake you sooner," Mathilde said. She laid a hand on Anja's forehead. "You are a little warm," she said, then laughed. "Of course, _you're_ the medical student. Why don't you tell me how you are this morning?"

"Sneezing, cough, nasal congestion," Anja said. "I think it's just a cold. I'll be fine. Why, I can almost smell the coffee," she said, smiling brightly.

"Enjoy your breakfast, dear, then come down to the kitchen. Uncle Oskar needs to see you before he leaves for Stalag 13."

"Today? He's going there?"

"Yes, Anja," Mathilde said. "He thought you might enjoy riding along, but if you're not well…"

"I'll be ready to go," Anja said decisively. "Aunt?"

"Yes, Anja?"

"Do you and Uncle Oskar like Peter?"

Mathilde smiled. She had been fond of that boy since she met him nearly two years earlier. She'd wondered how he had mastered some of his more dubious skills until the first time she saw him sit down to a meal. She saw how his bright green eyes lit up and had her answer: The boy was hungry and poor. He had never had what a child needed.

Mathilde had never been poor, but she had seen hunger, and heard about it, and she knew it was about to be at her doorstep once again, for the end of a war might bring peace, but it also brought devastation. The potato blight of Alsace was not within her memory, but grandparents lived through it. She did know the food rationing of the last war, and the devastation of its aftermath. That experience gave her a taste of what it meant to lack basic necessities. Her boys had arrived every two years from 1915 to 1921. How she and Oskar managed to feed them during that hell was beyond recollection.

Add in poverty, and the mixture was combustible. A child like Peter would learn to survive, or he would perish.

"We love Peter, Anja. He's a very sweet boy, and I see he is good to you," Mathilde said. "I'll give you some food to bring to him."

**XXX**

It was past noon when Schnitzer's van rolled into camp. Anja, riding up front at her uncle's side, scanned the compound as they rolled through the gates, looking for a patch of blue amid the sea of American and French uniforms in their earthy browns and olive greens.

Then she spotted him—running with some other young men, chasing a football. She smiled. He looked happy and he was clearly a confident player as he hooked the ball away from another man and passed it downfield. As Anja stepped out of the van, the Sergeant of the Guard blew a whistle, signaling an end of the men's games. They grumbled as they split and headed back their separate barracks. Peter didn't look up from dribbling his ball toward Barracks 2 until he heard LeBeau call his name and beckon him to the dog pens. Then Peter saw who was there and took off at a run, skillfully propelling the ball in front of him as he went.

He stopped two feet in front of her, dripping sweat and smiling brilliantly. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Hogan and LeBeau were already there, standing back and watching Schnitzer unload large bags of dog chow. "No more horsemeat can be found for dogs," Schnitzer was grumbling. "We're down to this rubbish. I hope they'll eat it. "

Peter and Anja ignored him; their eyes were locked on one another. "I've missed you," Peter whispered. "I hope we…"

At that moment, Kommandant Klink came striding out of his office, and he was heading straight for Schnitzer's van.

"Clear those prisoners away," he snapped at Schultz. "They have no business talking to the Tierarzt." His tone suddenly changed when he saw Anja. "Ah, lovely to see you again, Fräulein," he said, bending slightly at the waist. Klink had many flaws, but he was a gentleman, and Anja responded by dipping her head demurely and bending at the knee in just a touch of a curtsey.

"Actually, Kommandant, I have a favor to ask," Schnitzer said, wiping his brow as he turned toward Klink. "We have many deliveries to make, and my niece and I cannot handle all of these big bags. Some weigh 15 kilograms, some weigh 20, and we have deliveries all over the area today. I miss my sons most on days like this, but duty has called them all. I'm not getting any younger, Kommandant. I could use two strong men."

"Why should I loan you my men?" Klink hadn't ruled it out, but his inner accountant was making calculations.

"Ah, well, civic duty, of course," Schnitzer replied. "It will only be a few hours. And, I can pay you. Cash, plus something special for Fräulein Helga's birthday, which is next week if I'm not mistaken." Schnitzer was aware of Klink's interest in romancing that particular young lady, who happened to be Mathilde's brother's wife's cousin's daughter. Schnitzer reached into his pocket and produced a picture, which is showed to Klink, standing close by his side. "I think she'd like one of these very much." He gave a low, conspiratorial laugh. "What woman wouldn't?"

"Hmm. Yes, yes, I think she would," Klink replied, his eyes glinting ever so slightly at the image. "Fine. Get me one of those and I'll loan you two men. Who can lift heavy things?"

He didn't have much to pick from. The only men in front of him were Hogan, who was an officer, LeBeau, who was a midget, and Peter, who was a stick figure. Hogan wouldn't lift anything and the others surely couldn't, Klink thought grimly.

Hogan, as usual, decided for him. "LeBeau, Newkirk, go with Schnitzer. Naturally, I need to go along to supervise," he told the Kommandant. "And my men will be paid, of course."

"Naturally," Klink said, waving dismissively. Having Hogan out of his hair for a few hours would be worth the small risk it involved. No matter how much mischief that man got into, he had an uncanny way of always returning to the Stalag. It was as if he didn't _want_ to escape, Klink thought smugly. Hmmph. Had he been a prisoner of the Americans, he was quite sure he would have harassed the enemy mercilessly until they wanted him gone. Perhaps he had been too humane toward Hogan, Klink mulled. But he decided he could live with that provided his no-escape record remained unblemished.

"Schnitzer, Schultz, if they escape, heads will roll," Klink said in his most commanding voice.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said. He waited until Klink had clicked his heels and begun his return to the Kommandatur before he rolled his eyes.

Hogan shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't sure what Schnitzer was up to, but he was certain he wasn't improving.

Peter kicked his football toward Kinch, who was lolling against the barracks wall. Kinch scooped it up and nodded, then watched as Hogan, LeBeau, Newkirk and Anja piled into the back of the van while Schultz sat up front with Schnitzer. No, they hadn't been expecting the Tierarzt, so he needed to get on the radio to Mathilde now to get the game plan.


	16. Chapter 15: The Inspector General

**Dear Readers, I had to do a little revising to resolve some few details I had overlooked so this story has been updated as of Friday evening, July 24. Sorry to anyone who read it earlier. The changes are mostly in the first three and the last three paragraphs.**

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 15: THE INSPECTOR GENERAL**

The first step was easy. Schnitzer deposited Schultz in Mathilde's kitchen, amid the smell of Wienerschnitzel and gingerbread, with the comfort of a cushy armchair in the corner and a glass of brandy in his hand. Schnitzer promised to keep everyone in line, and Hogan and the boys looked so meek that Schultz saw no reason to argue.

On the way to their next destination, Schnitzer explained the opportunity. They had a brief opening to get into Gestapo Headquarters in Hammelburg while the head of the unit was at a meeting in Frankfurt, a two and a half hour journey by train. This was their best chance to get rid of Monck, who already knew too much about the Underground and was beginning to sniff around possible links to the POWs. Hogan quickly worked out a few details, and they had a plan. There wasn't much time to pull off this mission, and if some the details were still sketchy to LeBeau, Peter and Anja when they piled out of the van 20 minutes later, that was because they were going to have to improvise.

The van had arrived at a safe house 20 kilometers from the center of Hammelburg, an unassuming farmhouse at the edge of the village of Saaleck. The owners, a retired lawyer and his wife in their 80s, kept three dogs, as well as two old horses who inhabited the barn at the back of their stone courtyard. Schnitzer visited daily to tend the horses, so his van was a familiar sight on the property.

A stone wall shielded the courtyard and the rear entrance to the house from view. Schnitzer waved Peter, Anja, LeBeau and Hogan toward the back door. It wasn't a routine any of them were familiar with, but they all trusted Schnitzer, so they went. Schnitzer had provided Hogan with the password and instructions to look for a wood-paneled staircase and then wait.

Once inside, the only way to go was along a corridor, which led to a wide, elegant set of stairs. "Up or down?" Hogan wondered out loud as they stood in front of them.

"Down, I'd wager," Newkirk said. He tipped his chin toward the up staircase, where light was flooding in from what must have been a large window, though it was out of their view. The burglar in him knew it wouldn't make sense for four spies to traipse past a window.

"Komm herunter," said a female voice, wobbly with old age. They looked at one another, shrugged, and descended.

Hogan was the first to see her as she emerged from dim light: A slight woman, barely over five feet tall, with silver hair and pale eyes.

"The white dove flies far away," Hogan said.

"The homing pigeon returns each day," the woman replied. "Welcome to my home. I am Die weiße Taube. Come, follow me."

She toddled down a corridor and pushed open the last door on the right. It must have been the kitchen once, with its large open fireplace and pot belly stove. Now three sofas were arranged in a U in front of the fireplace, bordering a Persian rug in a rich red and brown. Books were stacked haphazardly on tables and on shelves that lined two walls, and floor lamps and table lamps were scattered around the room. It was a cozy library. In one corner, an upright piano was stacked high with sheet music; in another, two muddy boots were drying out on a small rug. It was obviously a loved and lived-in space.

"You'll need to do this part," the White Dove said as she gestured to the rug. "Pull it up at that corner."

Peter and LeBeau moved a book-laden table out of the way, and Anja dived in to catch the volumes that slid to the floor. Then the two men rolled the rug away from the sofa that was facing the fireplace, sending up a small cloud of dust. As they tugged it back, they could see a trap door, neatly concealed in the floor boards. Stone steps led to an old root cellar.

"You'll find five SS uniforms. Figure out which ones fit best and change," the White Dove. "Stay here with me, dear," she said to Anja. "We'll just need a coat for you, and I have just the thing."

When the men ascended, Peter and Hogan were reasonably convincing facsimiles of SS men, but LeBeau's black uniform was swimming on him. Peter looked him over critically.

"How mmmmuch t-time do we have?" he asked Hogan.

Hogan consulted his watch. "Schnitzer probably needs ten or fifteen minutes."

"Twenty or thirty minutes," the White Dove said. "He takes his time with the horses, then visits with my husband, Die Schnee-Eule. He is bedridden, unfortunately."

"The Snowy Owl?" Peter asked in surprise. The man was a legend in the Underground, involved in the most high-level planning and personally directing the activities of no fewer than five cells of operatives from Hammelburg to Cologne. Kinch had regular radio contact with the man, but no one had ever met him. Except Anja, it appeared.

"He used to lead us on expeditions late at night in the summers," Anja said softly. "I don't think we have ever met, gnädige Frau."

The old lady laughed. "I never shared my husband's enthusiasm for rambling walks in the dark or for wildlife. Books and music and dance are my world, and this is my room. But you are quite right, dear, you and Oscar's boys were some of his favorite children."

LeBeau was fidgeting with the trouser legs of his uniform, prompting Peter to interrupt the ladies. "I hate to break this up, but do you happen to have a needle and a medium or heavy weight black thread, gnädige Frau? And a seam ripper if you have it?" He nodded to LeBeau. "I can quickly adjust his uniform so it will be presentable. And is that stove warm?"

"It is. And yes, of course, I'll bring what you need," the White Dove said.

"Well, if you have a flat iron, I'll take that, too," Peter said.

"I'll help," Anja said. The White Dove bowed slightly, then exited the room, with Anja on her heels. As their shoes clicked down the hallway, Peter wrestled LeBeau out of his tunic to adjust the sleeves.

"Ordinarily, I'd cut it, b-but there's not time for that," he said, talking mostly to himself. "I can baste it though… You're going to have to take those trousers off, too, mate," he said absently.

"Are you sure about this, Newkirk?" Hogan asked. "It seems like a lot. We can regroup and do this with two of us in uniform."

"No, I've definitely got this," he said, just as Anja and the White Dove returned. "Two irons, that's perfect," he said as he assessed what they'd brought with them. "If you'll heat them up, I'll get this first bit started."

He quickly ripped out the tunic's sleeve hems and tucked and pinned them several inches shorter. He laid them aside and ordered LeBeau out of his trousers. As the ladies graciously excused themselves, he took the trousers, turned them inside-out, ripped out the hems, and adjusted them. Then he took up an iron, pressed the tunic hems into shape, and secured them with a zig-zag stitch and a few tacking stitches. Laying the tunic aside, he put the iron back on the stove to re-heat, then grabbed the trousers and used the other iron to press down the leg hems. He repeated the zig-zag stitch.

"Alright, trousers back on," he said. "The length's alright, but…" he went quiet as he worked, tugging the waistband from behind and adding a series of long basting stitches in an inverted triangle, which he then pulled tight to snug up the trousers. "There," he said, satisfied with his work. "That'll hold you."

He helped LeBeau put his jacket back on, made a few adjustments, and then ordered it off again. Turning it inside out, he got under the lining and stitched in a false side seam to produce a more contoured fit.

As he helped LeBeau back into the tunic, he warned him, "No sudden moves, alright? As long as you move carefully this will be convincing. But if you j-j-jump about, well, you'll look like a proper SS man with a bad G-German tailor, and no wants that for you."

Hogan had been busy applying silver to his hair and gluing on a bushy mustache, but he hadn't missed the spectacle. In barely twenty minutes, Corporal Newkirk had refitted LeBeau's SS uniform, and while no one would accuse it of being a perfect fit, he no longer looked like a little boy in his father's clothes. If there was a medal for quick thinking and expert stitchery, Newkirk would have earned it with a hundred-button cluster by now, Hogan laughed to himself.

**XXX**

They emerged in the afternoon light, but instead of piling back into Schnitzer's van, they were handed the keys to a 1931 Karmann Adler Standard 8 Cabriolet, deep blue on the outside with a plush gray interior. As Hogan revved the engine and steered the vehicle out of the barn and down the rocky driveway, he resisted the urge to floor it to see what that V-8 engine could do. Instead, he drove carefully in the direction of Hammelburg Gestapo headquarters, with LeBeau at his side in the front while Peter and Anja held hands and brushed a leg against each other's in the back seat.

Hogan parked in front of headquarters, as one does when one is in SS uniform, flanked by two SS minions and accompanied by a beautiful but obviously terrified young women. They marched up the stairs together, Hogan supporting Anja's arm as Peter and LeBeau followed behind. At the front desk, Hogan flashed his warrant disc and waltzed down the corridor, armed with directions to Herr Monck's office.

The foursome stopped before a heavy oak door with a glass window on which the numbers "1-4" were painted in white, and were the only things that differentiated from in a row of identical offices. Peter and LeBeau stared straight ahead at attention, while Anja shook with anxiety and Hogan glanced sideways at the man inside, a peevish looking little chap with his head bent over his desk as he scratched away at a notepad with a black pencil.

"On three," Hogan muttered. "Follow my lead. One, two, three…"

At that, Hogan spun into action. "Herr Monck!" he bellowed. "Which one of you is Herr Monck?"

The fair-haired head of the peevish man snapped up. With his index finger, he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, stood up, and came to the door looking something between terrified and annoyed.

"Is this the man, Fräulein?" Hogan demanded of Anja. "The one who showed you those photographs?"

"Yes, Herr Bertman," Anja replied shyly.

"And the books?" Hogan inquired

"Yes," she said, dipping her head in shame. "And the postcards."

"The postcards," Hogan said in tones of shock. "Corrupting our purest maidens with exposure to decadent French postcards," he said with a shudder.

"The French, hmmph," LeBeau muttered in disgust. Peter simply shook his head woefully.

By this time, other members of the staff had piled out in the corridor.

"What is your responsibility here, Herr Monck?" Hogan demanded. He stepped menacingly close to Monck, still clutching Anja by the arm, and as he did, Peter and LeBeau tightened ranks too. They were all staring down at him—well, strictly speaking, LeBeau was staring up, but his stare was the murkiest of them all. Monck was so unnerved by the jut of LeBeau's chin that he didn't notice that the other, younger SS man had suddenly and inexplicably lost his balance.

"Putzi!" Hogan snapped as Peter tripped forward, jostling Monck's shoulder to avoid a fall. "Stand up straight!" Peter did, but he looked ashamed.

Seeing someone else being criticized was all it took to put a smirk on Monck's bird-like face as he answered Hogan's inquiry. "I am the inspector general. I uncover wrongdoing," Monck stated proudly.

Hogan laughed, and as he did, Peter and LeBeau joined in the mockery.

"Isn't that ironic," Hogan cooed, his nose barely inches from Monck's. "We are to escort you at once to Berlin for an investigation into your exploitation of this fine young woman," he said, gesturing with Anja's own arm in his grip, "for your own nefarious purposes. You, Sir, used this woman…"

"I've never met her!" Monck said. "Nor have I seen her before now!"

"… yet you used her to undermine the reputation of a revered schoolmaster and Hitler Youth leader, Heinz Witman, by suggesting that he was a dealer in erotic materials."

The word was enough to provoke blushes—by Anja, Peter, and Monck himself, not to mention various secretaries who had paused in the corridor to try to make sense of the SS's arrival in Gestapo headquarters. Suddenly, amid the rapidly spreading shame, a voice boomed out.

"With all due respect, Sir, why does this matter concern the SS? Even if you had proof of wrongdoing, you have no authority over the Gestapo's internal affairs." The speaker was a gentleman of small stature but large presence. He wore Gestapo plainclothes and had pitch black hair, a chevron mustache, and a voice that could cut glass.

Hogan looked him up and down reproachfully. "Ah," he said, "Major Hochsetter, I presume. I've heard of you," he said slowly and deliberately. "I'll tell you exactly why this concerns us. Putzi?"

At that signal, Peter stepped forward, reached into Herr Monck's breast pocket and withdrew a fistful of postcards. He handed them Hogan, who stepped forward and showed them to Hochstetter.

"Mein Führer!" Hochstetter said in precisely the tones his father would have once said "Mein Gott!"

"And Eva Braun," Hogan said, shaking his head sadly. "In flagrante delicto."

"I believe that one's Heinrich Himmler, Sir," LeBeau interjected, pointing a finger to one of the postcards Hogan was shuffling under Hochstetter's nose.

Peter leaned in to observe for himself. "No, that looks like Generaloberst Jodl to me," he said.

Hogan raised a hand and waved at them both with a pained expression. Then he spoke softly to the girl, stroking her arm. "These are the photos Herr Monck showed you, Fräulein?"

"They are, Sir," Anja replied, barely breaking a whisper.

"It will be in your best interest not to resist," Hogan advised Monck.

"But those are not mine!" Monck protested. "I have no idea where they came from!"

"They came from your breast pocket, Sir," Peter said helpfully.

"He's right, Monck," Hochstetter said sternly. "You brought this on yourself. Give these men your cooperation, and maybe you can be reformed somehow," he counseled.

Monck looked like he'd been bulldozed, smacked upside the head and beaten senseless, but he went along quietly, taking his place in the back seat between Peter and LeBeau, while Anja sat up front with Hogan this time. He looked angry enough to try to escape, but he never had a chance, because as they were ushering him into the back seat, he felt a sudden prick on the bum. He settled into his seat, but grew drowsy, and by the time they drove back to the safe house, he was drooling on Peter's shoulder.

"Why me?" Peter asked as he felt a little pool of slime soaking through his collar.

"Retribution," LeBeau said simply.

"Retribution for what? What did I do wrong?"

"You made my SS uniform look good, and God doesn't like that," LeBeau with a straight face.

"Oh, shut up," Newkirk replied. He heard Anja snickering in the front seat and that was enough to make him laugh.

**XXX**

Back at the safe house, Schnitzer and his farmhand, Otto Marx, had arrived in separate vehicles to transfer their prisoner. Monck would be out for at least another hour and that was enough time for Marx to deliver him by his farm truck to the Bad Kissingen cell, which would neutralize Monck one way or another. Hogan, LeBeau and Peter went inside to change while Anja waited with the White Dove. The old lady had ham and cheese sandwiches for them, which they devoured gratefully before departing.

Into Schnitzer's van they went, and off they went to see Mathilde and collect Schultz. On the trip back to Stalag 13, Hogan rode up front, and Schultz and LeBeau sat in back with Peter and Anja. Schultz dozed, and LeBeau might as well have been invisible. Peter and Anja sat behind the driver, with Anja curled up on Peter's lap, her head on his shoulder, as he looked down at her in awe and devotion. They held hands, cuddled and smiled until, at last, Peter noticed LeBeau's eyes had dropped shut, and Hogan and Schnitzer were deep in discussion. With two fingers under Anja's chin, Peter tipped her face up to his and kissed her deeply, languidly, sighing inwardly with pleasure. Her left arm reached around to his right shoulder and she pulled closer, kissing his neck and sending an electric shiver through his every nerve.

Too many adults, Peter sighed as Anja looked up at him and grinned at the excitement she'd provoked, the response she could feel pressing into her. He smiled back and stroked her cheek as she laid her head on his shoulder. They could hold hands and snuggle, and they did, all the way back to Stalag 13, their hands linked and massaging slowly as LeBeau looked on with a sideways glance, suppressing a smile. Peter's nostrils flared as Anja wriggled on his lap. He looked blissfully happy, and Anja was clearly enjoying herself too.


	17. Chapter 16: The Kick-Off

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 16: THE KICK-OFF**

**March 30, 1944**

It was a beautiful day for sea travel, and for football. The Witmans' journey would take place this evening, and most details were finally pinned down. But for now, this morning, Stalag 13's cadre of Londoners had challenged other RAF men to a short match, and Peter was free. He was still riding high after the previous day's mission, his too-short dalliance with Anja, and a fantasy-fueled aftermath in the privacy of his sewing hut. He'd slept well last night, despite a growing case of the sniffles punctuated by some coughing fits.

By the time the RAF players chose up sides, their two-hour outdoor exercise period was ticking away. They settled on an abridged match, with two 30-minute halves and a 10-minute break, to ensure that they would finish before they were shooed inside.

Carter and Kinch were busy with mission preparations, but LeBeau was available for a change, and Peter dragged him off to cheer for the London side. The opponents were well matched, and Louis had cheered the Londoners as they vied for domination throughout the first half, barely eking out a 2-2 tie. As the second half got underway, he was observing intensely from a bench on the sidelines when he felt the weight shift beneath him as someone sat down. He turned to see who it was. It was David Garrett, the American sergeant who directed many of the camp's plays.

"Ah, bonjour, Garrett. I didn't know you were a football fan." He gestured to the field. "It's London versus the rest of England, apparently. They're tied at two goals apiece."

"I'm an all-around sports fan," the dark-haired Yank said with quick lift of his shoulders. "Baseball, volleyball, basketball. Ice hockey, man. Speed and agility—that's the best." He always had a grin on his face that made him look like he was about to tell a joke. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "We don't have this kind of football at home. At least, I never saw it."

LeBeau looked at him with pity. "Everyone in the world but Americans knows football. I don't understand how your country missed out on it."

"I don't know either, but I'm catching up," Garrett said agreeably. "You know, in baseball there's a lot more standing around, waiting for things to happen. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Baseball is only boring if you lack imagination or patience. It is a game of inches. It's all about positioning and strategy moment to moment."

"I'll take your word for it," LeBeau said. He was about say he found baseball incredibly dull, but after that enthusiastic explanation he didn't want to sound like whatever the sports version of a Philistine was. "I'm not really well informed about sports, other than football and horse racing," LeBeau offered.

They went silent and watched as the London team charged downfield, driving the ball toward the net. "How's your buddy Newkirk doing?" Garrett asked. He jutted his chin in Peter's direction. "He's a good player. Very athletic."

"He's fine, and yes, he is athletic, once you get him moving. But mostly,_ c'est un fain__é__ant_," LeBeau said. He didn't want to pursue that line of inquiry. Garrett's interest in Peter was an uncomfortable subject. In addition to an enthusiastic member of several sports teams, Garrett was devoted to theater, and he was keenly interested in casting Peter in one of his plays. But Peter had been unnerved by him the first time they met. Garrett had raved about his performance of a poem, The Highwayman. Peter wasn't used to attracting favorable attention, and he was too nervous about stuttering in front of his fellow prisoners to even consider appearing in a play. He'd made a few costumes for productions and helped copy scripts, but that was that.

And there was another thing. The men of Barracks 9, where Garrett lived, had banded together for a reason. LeBeau didn't have any problem with their open secret, but he did not want Pierre exposed to it. Not at his age, and not in his position as a member of Colonel Hogan's team. He had bluntly told Garrett as much, and had asked him—no, warned him—to give the young Englishman some space.

Garrett and LeBeau hadn't discussed the matter in the intervening months. But, sitting beside LeBeau on the bench, Garrett looked down at the ground, then turned to face him. "I haven't talked to him, LeBeau. Not once, not since you and I spoke," Garrett said. "He's young, and he's on Hogan's team. I get it."

"Thank you for that," LeBeau said. "He's doing fine. He's interested in a young lady," he added pointedly.

"I've seen her," Garrett said, nodding in approval. "She's a knockout."

LeBeau wasn't expecting that, and his face probably told Garrett so. "What? I know a beautiful woman when I see one, LeBeau. I've dated quite a few of them, actually." He grinned again and spread his hands apart. "A good looking guy like me? Come on! The ladies love me."

LeBeau couldn't disagree with Garrett's self-assessment, which didn't even sound vain given how he was laughing when he said it. The man was in fact classically handsome, with chiseled features that were balanced and proportionate, and he had a good strong chin. But LeBeau looked at him quizzically, held back for a moment, and then just decided to ask what he was wondering. "Are men just a temporary interest for you, then? While you're a POW?"

Garrett sputtered. "Well, that's kind of a personal question, LeBeau." He looked him up and down. "But you're a nice guy. You've always leveled with me. No, it's not temporary. I've tested the waters on both sides of the shore, and I've had some good times with the ladies. But I always come back to the guys. It's just how it is with me." He paused. "So Newkirk likes that girl, huh? Schnitzer's daughter?"

"His niece. Yes, he likes her very much," LeBeau said with a smile.

"Young love is the best," Garrett said warmly. "More power to him." He stood and watched as the ball floated in Peter's direction in the midfield. Peter and an opposing midfielder named Marlowe both jumped for the header—and both fell, face first, into the wet grass.

"Ouch," Garrett and LeBeau said simultaneously as they watched the opponents scramble to their feet and slap each other on the backs in a display of good sportsmanship. Garrett looked at LeBeau, shaking his head. "That had to hurt."

"He's indestructible," LeBeau laughed.

Soon, the ball was back in play, and the clock had run down to 15 minutes. For the next 12 minutes, as the two men watched quietly, neither side could pierce the other's defense. The ball barely moved out of the center of the pitch as players swapped it back and forth.

It was looking very much like the match would end up in a draw, when suddenly there was a quick dash, a pass, and a flick. Then out of the blue, Peter was on the attack, dribbling downfield and sliding the ball past three defenders toward the goal. In a flash, a burly center fullback was in his path and Peter had a split-second decision to make: Take it home and run straight into that guy, or pass and get out of his way. He didn't like his odds against a fullback who outweighed him by half, and he opted to drive the ball left to his team's second-striker, a tall chap named Mullins, who picked it up with his instep and waltzed it straight into the goal, taking the team to a 3-2 victory.

Mullins slid to his knees in a goal celebration as Peter and three other players slammed into him for a group hug. From the sidelines, LeBeau and Garrett cheered like maniacs, and when Peter and a few other players jogged up to LeBeau, they both pounded them on the back.

Peter smiled at LeBeau, but hung back cautiously from Garrett. He was still given to bouts of extreme shyness when venturing beyond his comfort zones of Barracks 2, a few other RAF men, and his football mates.

"Good game," Garrett said.

"We call it a mmmmatch," Peter said, almost involuntarily. He had this discussion every time he talked football with a Yank, along with "It's not a field, it's a pitch."

"Well, good match, then," Garrett said with grin. "Cigarette?" Peter nodded and accepted one from Garrett, who then lit it for him while studying Newkirk's face. Little streams of sweat were dripping from his forehead, his cheeks were flushed, and his hair was damp and sticking up in spots.

"Did you make all the uniforms?" Garrett wanted to know. The Londoners all had red shirts with white sleeves, and most of the men had white shorts, though some looked permanently dirty.

"These? Uh, no. They came fffffr, uh, ffffffr, uh, fffff, fffffrom the British Red Cross," Peter replied. "Arsenal FC rrrrred."

"You OK?" Garrett asked. His look had turned to one of genuine concern.

"Yeah," Peter snapped. "I j-j-j… j-j-j…" He heaved out a sigh, knowing "just" was not making it over his lips. "You, you know that I st-st-stammer," he said irritably. "I'm not nnnervous, if that's what you th-th-think."

"Right, I knew that," Garrett said. He hadn't spoken much to Peter, and while he did know he stuttered, he'd also heard him recite poetry almost flawlessly. He _had_ assumed Peter was nervous, and he didn't know what else to say. So he did what guys so often did: He punched Peter on the arm, then shook his hand. "Well, OK. Hey, good match, man. You're a very talented player. That was quite a run at the end there."

"Ta, mate," Peter replied with all the confidence he could muster. "Mullins is an amazing striker. We, we, we play regularly on Sundays and Wwwwwednesdays."

"I'll be sure to check you out," Garrett said. "The whole team, I mean," he added, with a pointed nod with LeBeau.

"Side," Peter said. Then he dipped his head down, embarrassed at correcting a Sergeant, and looked up through his eyelashes. "Sssssorry. It's j-j-just that it's called a sssside in fffff, fffootball, not a team," he said, rubbing anxiously at the corner of his mouth, before pulling his hand back. He was trying not to do that.

Garrett smiled at the winsome display of shyness, nodded, and walked off. LeBeau watched as he wandered away and noticed his shoulders slump slightly as he went. He was satisfied that Garrett, whether he liked it or not, still got the message LeBeau had communicated. He turned to Peter, who had pulled up his shirt to wipe off his face, revealing a well-toned mid-section. LeBeau said a silent prayer that Garrett would not look back.

"Do you want him to come see you play?" LeBeau asked, genuinely curious.

"Nnnno, I don't c-care if he does or not," Peter replied. "I was j-j-j-j…j-j-j-juh…" God, that word was killing him today. He had to stop trying to say it. "I was _only_ being p-p-polite. It's nice when Yanks take an interest in fff, fffootball, don't you think?"

LeBeau nodded. All of that made sense, but the uptick in stuttering bothered LeBeau. Peter might be getting a little rundown. Anja had sounded congested yesterday, and Peter had been coughing a lot.

"I wish I could have a shower," Peter said as they ambled back to the barracks.

"I wish you could have one too," LeBeau teased back, dodging as Peter aimed a punch at his arm. "I'll warm up some water for you and you can wash up. You might want to get some rest before tonight. It's a long journey to the coast."

"It does take a while, but at least we get to smell the sea," Peter said. "There's nothing like it."

"It smells better than you do," LeBeau observed. Peter just rolled his eyes and kept walking.

**XXX**

A warm basin of soapy water improved things considerably as Peter began to strip off his football kit in the quiet barracks. LeBeau tossed his shirtless friend a sponge. "_Si tu ne fais rien d'autre, s'il te plait lave tes aisselles,_" he said quietly, not expecting to be heard, let alone understood. He had miscalculated on both counts.

"I'm doing that," Peter said with a grin as he raised an arm up and washed there. "Do you really think you need to remind me, Louis? Blimey, you think you know a person."

LeBeau laughed. A year or two ago, the answer to that question would have been a definite yes, but Pierre had matured in many ways. "Just make sure you use soap. It doesn't work without soap," he said, slapping his friend with a towel he had fetched for him.

Peter was busy rolling his eyes and drying himself off when a chill made him shake. Blimey, he was cold even though the days were warming up and he'd just been running. He tugged his undershirt and pullover on, then changed out of his grubby soccer shorts and finished cleaning up. He was just buttoning up his trousers when the bunkbed entrance began to rumble. Kinch climbed out.

"How was the football match?" Kinch asked amiably.

"We won, 3-2," Peter replied.

"And Pierre set up the final goal," LeBeau put in.

"…Which Mullins scored," Peter added. "He's a hell of a striker. He's giving Jamie Sutton a run for his money," he added, referring to the London side's best striker, who was sidelined with an injury.

Kinch was looking intently at Newkirk. "You're pink. Too much sun?"

"I've just been running for an hour," Peter said. He camouflaged a cough and sniff by clearing his throat. "What time are we off tonight?" he asked.

"1930 hours," Kinch replied. "You'll be 'escaping' an hour and a half before rollcall, and by 2100 hours the Colonel should be on his way to conduct a 'search.' It could take you as much as twenty-four hours there and back with all the checkpoints and waiting-around time, Pete. I hope you're ready for a week in the cooler when you've been recaptured."

"Banged up again," Peter said with a shrug. "At least I'll catch up on sleep." He was strapping his watch back onto his wrist when he looked up at his bunk. "I could use a bit of a kip right now," he said.

"Do it," Kinch said, slapping him on the shoulder. "You'll be glad you did."

Peter placed his hands on his mattress and muscled himself up to his top bunk, then flopped down on his back and stared for a moment at the ceiling. His head felt heavy and his throat was scratchy as he let his eyes flutter shut. A little rest would do him a world of good.

* * *

**_Garrett appeared in Chapter 47 of "A Minor Problem," and the episode mentioned in that story is described in more detail in "Flirting with Danger," which is available only on AO3. When LeBeau describes Newkirk as "un fain__é__ant," he is saying he is a lazybones. He is also muttering that "if you do nothing else, for heaven's sake wash under your arms."_**


	18. Chapter 17: Bonnie Annie Laurie

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 17: BONNIE ANNIE LAURIE**

Peter woke to dots of perspiration on his forehead and the vague sense that he'd swallowed a razor blade. The barracks was noisy with life, and the dim light of late afternoon was streaming through a crack in the ceiling. They really needed to patch that before it rained, he thought as he laid still, letting his mind clear.

How long had he been asleep? A quick check of his watch showed it was half past four. Bloody hell, he'd been down for over two hours. He flicked his eyes to the right and saw Olsen and Kinch at the table, looking intently at a chess board, while LeBeau and Garlotti watched. Below him, he could feel vibrations as Carter carved away at one of the blocks of wood he'd acquired from Schultz in exchange for chocolate bars. God only knew what he was making.

He would be "escaping" in three hours, and the truth was, he wasn't feeling well. But he felt sure this was nothing more than a cold, and everyone on the team had worked through colds and worse. He felt a little woozy as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk, but steadied himself before jumping down to the floor. He sat beside Carter on the bottom bunk, lit a smoke, and began to cough.

"You've got to ease up on the cigarettes, Pete," Kinch tossed over his shoulder without even looking up from his game. "You sound like an old man when you wake up." Olsen snorted in agreement.

Seeming older than he actually was happened to be an idea that had some appeal to Peter Newkirk. So he was smirking a little as he harrumphed and took a deeper drag on his cigarette—and triggered a coughing spasm. Carter immediately looked alarmed and smacked him on the back a few times, as if there was something stuck in his windpipe, then handed over his canteen of water.

Peter took a slug. The simple act of swallowing hurt, but he caught his breath and got to his feet. "Leave off, Carter," he said with a wheeze that instantly got LeBeau's attention. Peter watched his friend's eyebrows shoot up, and replied by looking away and thrusting his lips out in a pout. LeBeau wouldn't say anything in front of everyone, but Peter knew he was going to get an earful in private.

"Where's the Colonel?" he asked.

"He's out making the rounds of the barracks chiefs right now," Kinch said, still focusing on his chess game. "Making sure everyone knows what's happening tonight."

Good, Peter thought. Then he wouldn't be missed if he made an immediate escape from the wrath of LeBeau. He smoked his cigarette to the butt end, then stubbed it out. With a nod and a thumb advising Carter to cover the door, Peter moved toward the bunkbed that provided a secret entrance into their tunnel.

"I'm going d-d-down below to check on our guests," he announced as he hit the panel that made the bunk rise, and down he went.

**XXX**

The Witmans couldn't carry much with them—only two small carpet bags for the entire family. Being in possession of anything more than clothes and personal care items for a short trip would have aroused suspicion if they were stopped, so valuables and mementoes had to be left behind. Wedding pictures, baby pictures, jewelry, a family Bible dating to the 17th century—all were stashed in a crate in the tunnel, in hopes that they could be sent along later.

Peter found Hannelore sitting in front of the crate, cradling a doll with blond hair, a straw hat with red ribbons and flowers, and little red shoes. Peter crouched down beside her.

"What's her name?" he asked softly.

"Simone," Hannelore answered, just as quietly. She looked up at Peter. "I don't play with her any more, of course. Because I'm thirteen. I'm practically a lady."

Peter touched the doll's face. "My sister Nora had a doll—and not a baby doll, but a proper girl, like Simone. More like a friend, really. But I don't think she was as nice as Simone. Is she made of bisque?" he asked.

"Yes," Hannelore replied. "She's very delicate. She'd never survive the journey. Is Nora older or younger than you?"

"Two years older," Peter said. "I have seven older sisters," he said with a roll of his eyes. "She comes right before me." He turned back to the doll. "Her eyes move," Peter observed.

"Yes. Lovely brown eyes. She's 30 centimeters tall, and was my grandmother's when she was a little girl. She only had sons, and then grandsons until I came along."

"They're lucky you came along," Peter said. "So Simone would have someone to look after her. And lots of other reasons, of course."

Hannelore smiled and leaned into Peter's shoulder. "Seven sisters?"

"Yes. That's why I know heaps and heaps about girls," he replied.

She swatted him on the shoulder playfully. "You're still a stupid boy."

"I realize that," he said with a chuckle. "Girls are much brighter than us lads. We go from starting fistfights to starting wars." He sobered at the thought; it wasn't wrong. "Listen, we'll wrap her up really well. Carter is really clever with woodwork, and he could make a crate so she doesn't bump around on her journey to England. And we'll mark it 'fragile' so everyone knows not to drop her."

"Scotland. They're sending us to Scotland," Hannelore said distastefully. "Edinburgh."

"Edin-bur-row," Peter said, correcting her Germanic pronunciation. "It's supposed to be a beautiful city."

Hannelore shrugged. "Do you think anyone will really care if the box you send us is marked fragile?"

"No, probably not," Peter said thoughtfully. "So we'll mark it 'explosive.' That way everyone will be very, very ginger with it, alright? And her little travel box will look just like a coffin." He looked at her with very wide eyes.

Hannelore burst into laughter, and Peter joined in. "That's brilliant," Hannelore said. "You're so naughty."

"With grownups, we call that 'sneaky,' actually. And yes, I really am," Peter said with a grin. He got to his feet and brushed off his knees. "Hang about a moment, love. I have something for you."

He disappeared around a corner, and returned a moment later with something behind his back. "Close your eyes," he said.

Hannelore obeyed. "Alright, open 'em," Peter said. He was holding a blue dress with the tiniest gingham print, a white collar and cuffs on short sleeves, and two rows of white buttons down the front.

"The belt is reversible," he said, showing her that it was white on one side and gingham on the other. "You need a summer frock for warm days."

"You made it for me?" Hannelore asked in astonishment.

"Of course. At your service, Mademoiselle," he said with a dramatic bow. "I made a frock for your mum too, but not in gingham. This fabric is suitable for younger ladies."

"But not little girls, right?"

"Little girls can wear gingham, of course, but not this style. The check is very subtle for a mature look. And little girls wouldn't have adjustable darts here or room about the hips, would they? Because they wouldn't need it like a young lady does. And there's room in the hem to let down two inches for when you …"

He didn't get to finish. Hannelore had carefully laid down Simone and thrown herself into his arms. He held her tightly as she sniffled and tried not to cry.

"Don't be afraid. Scotland will be lovely."

Hannelore looked up at him. "Should I become Hannah or Laura? I can't stay Hannelore. It's too German."

He smiled down. "You know, there's a Scottish song about a girl with your name." He was shy about singing, though he had a good voice, so he began to sing it very softly and held her close to dance.

Maxwelton's hills are bonnie,  
Where early falls the dew,  
'Twas there that Annie Laurie  
Gave me her promise true.  
Gave me her promise true -  
Which ne'er forgot will be,  
And for bonnie Annie Laurie  
I'd lay me down and dee.

Her brow is like the snow-drift,  
Her neck is like the swan,  
Her face it is the fairest,  
That 'er the sun shone on.  
That 'er the sun shone on -  
And dark blue is her eye,  
And for bonnie Annie Laurie  
I'd lay me down and die.

Hannelore was looking at him with the pure admiration of a girl's first crush as he waltzed her around the tunnel.

"Annie Laurie," she said. "I like that."

They hadn't noticed her parents and Colonel Hogan—who had returned from across camp via the tunnel system—watching them with a smile. Hogan pondered that moving two civilian adults to the coast was never an easy undertaking. Transporting a child with them presented special challenges, and having someone leading the way whom the child could trust was critical. Thank goodness Peter and Hannelore had connected so well.

**XXX**

Colonel Hogan arrived in the bunk a few minutes later, with Peter on his heels. The Frenchman got to his feet, filled the teakettle with water, and set it down to boil. "You want tea," LeBeau announced to Peter, allowing no room for argument. He stood at the stove, arms crossed, facing Peter.

"Ta, mate," Peter replied, leaning lazily into Carter's bunk. There was no point fighting LeBeau on matters of instinct. "B-but I'll take it from here. I want it d-d-done properly," he added in a waspish tone.

LeBeau ignored the implied insult. "J'ai apporté un petit morceau de gâteau au gingembre du déjeuner du Commandant pour toi. Garde tes forces."

Peter's eyebrows rose up, and he could hear Kinch snickering. Peter's spoken French was awful, but he understood it fairly well, though not as well as Kinch. LeBeau had pinched him a slice of the Kommandant's gingerbread cake? Yes, that would keep his strength up! That sounded alright.

As the tea kettle began to whistle, Peter joined in with a merry tune of his own. He poured the boiling water over the tea leaves, then carried the pot and a cracked cup to the table. LeBeau reached around his shoulder, placing a plate carefully covered in a napkin in front of him, and following a moment later to deposit a splash of milk and two sugar cubes in his tea cup.

"Don't drink it yet," LeBeau said as Peter poured out his tea. He laid a hand across his forehead, then scolded him with just a look.

"I'm fffffine," Peter said irritably. After a long silence, he allowed, "It's a very, vvvvery minor cold. It wouldn't k-keep you down, nor Colonel Hogan." He looked over at the Colonel, who now regarded him with concern. "Would it Sir?"

"Not for a short mission near camp, it wouldn't," LeBeau snapped, but he let Peter and Colonel Hogan fill in the blanks for themselves. Peter knew perfectly well that he and Colonel Hogan could be gone twenty-four hours; Kinch had said so.

"I'll b-be alright, Louis," Peter said. He had a patented way of slowing down his speech, modulating his pitch, and widening his eyes to signal sincerity; LeBeau rarely fell for it. Peter took a bite of the cake and tried to suppress a wince as his throat argued the case against swallowing.

LeBeau looked at Peter squarely, debating whether to say what he was thinking. He decided to take the risk. "You're stammering a lot more than you usually do around me," he said. "That always happens when you're getting sick."

"Leave off," Peter said, pushing the plate away. "Th-that's rubbish. I'm ffffine."

It was Colonel Hogan's turn to lean across the table and place a hand on Peter's forehead. "He doesn't feel warm to me, LeBeau. You sure you're up to this, Newkirk?"

"Yes, Sir. I'll be p-perfectly alright. I'll have time to rest in the cooler when we get back." He turned to face LeBeau. "You can play nnnnursemaid then," he snapped.

Hogan nodded. "I think he can handle this, LeBeau. And be nice, Peter." The use of his first name signaled immediately to Peter that he now skating on thin ice with Colonel Hogan.

LeBeau surrendered. "Sorry, mon pote. I'm just worried about you going if you're in ill health. You have to admit, it is not without reason." He paused, thinking of the times he had nursed his Pierre back from the brink. "Take some aspirin before you go, and carry some with you," he said with an air of resignation. "That might help."

"Fffffine," Peter replied. He couldn't stay annoyed with LeBeau for long. "Look, mmmost of the j-j-journey is by motor car, except for two detours through the woods on ffffoot to meet the relay team," Peter said. "I've done it before, and someone has to see that llllittle girl through."

"It's not a perfect situation," Hogan said. "But I need Newkirk for this mission, and if he's feeling well enough to dance around the tunnels with Hannelore, he should be well enough to go to the coast," he added with a grin.

Peter rolled his eyes, but didn't let the embarrassing revelation get him down. "Annie Laurie, Sir. She'll be known in her next life as Annie Laurie."


	19. Chapter 18: To the Sea

**Note: I originally wrote in two previous chapters that the mission would take about sixteen hours. But as I planned it and researched it, I realized twenty-four hours was more realistic. I've revised the references in chapters 16 and 17 to reflect this change. Sorry for any confusion! Also, thank you to Valashu for continuing to beta this story!**

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 18: TO THE SEA**

Spread out on a long table in the tunnel was a topographical map of Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany. It was nearly as large as half of a door, and it was held down in the corners with an assortment of bricks and rocks. The edges were crinkled and worn and the surface was dashed with faded red and blue pencil marks showing the team's potential passages to the sea.

"It's about three and a half hours to Koblenz. Newkirk, Colonel Hogan will be about an hour and a half behind you. After you connect, you'll wait an hour or so and leave around 0300 hours. The trickiest part is always the border crossing," Kinch said, thunking a finger down as Hogan, Herr Witman, and Peter leaned in to observe. He swooped his hand around in a curving motion. "We're going to avoid it with a trek through the hills. Right around dawn, you'll be met by a French resistance fighter named Arpège. He and his team will take you by foot, then by horse and wagon across two rivers, through the far north corner of Luxembourg, and on to a village outside of Namur. From there, it should be a little more than two hours to the coast. You should be at the safe house by 0930 hours."

"What are the arrangements for our return, Kinch?" Hogan asked.

"You'll leave the Witmans and board a train at 1036 hours with your 'nephew.' You'll have two changes, and then you disembark in Würzburg and Otto will have Schultz ready to relay you back to camp. Peter should be in the cooler in time for supper," Kinch said with an apologetic smile.

"On April Fffool's Day. Marvelous," Peter said. "Right then, what about once they're on the sub? What should they expect?" He shifted into German to ask the question for the benefit of Herr Witman, and Hogan and Kinch understood why. The X-class midget submarine that would carry the Witmans to their new country was basically a tin can for a five-man crew. Any passengers would be on top of one another the whole way. Comfort was not even a remote consideration. Kinch nodded with a serious look on his face.

"You'll have time to move and stretch before you embark at midnight, Herr Witman. Once you're on board, your best use of time will be to sleep. From Saint Idesbald across the Channel to Deal, it's 88 kilometers—that's 55 miles," Kinch began.

"Deal is in Kent, Herr Witman," Peter broke in. "That's right where the North Sea and the English Channel intersect. The waters are deeper there than in the Channel. The seas can get choppy, though."

Witman nodded in appreciation. He'd been to England before the war, and he'd been on ships. But a submarine was something entirely new.

Kinch picked up his explanation again. "It won't be a quick passage, Herr Witman. The X-class travels at two knots per hour until she's twenty kilometers from shore, then she'll surface and cruise at six and a half knots."

"So, it'll take nearly six hours before you surface," Hogan said. "Then what, Kinch? Another six hours or so?

Kinch was scratching out details on a note pad. "Not quite," he said thoughtfully. "Once the boat surfaces, she'll need about two and half hours to get to British waters. Once she's in range of home port, she'll be in towed by a mother submarine, so the last 40 kilometers or so will only take an hour and a half. I'd make it about ten hours to complete the crossing, including time to couple the boats."

Hogan looked at Witman. "You'll know once you're in British waters," he said. "That'll be a fun ride," he added, whistling and making a swooping gesture with his hand. He checked his watch. "Sunset is at 1938 hours," he said. "You've got an hour until you leave at 19:48."

**XXX**

Peter spent the next hour in the tunnel in the company of LeBeau, the Witmans, and piping bowls of chicken soup. He had no idea how his best mate managed it, but the soup was filling and delicious. As Peter devoured it, the warmth seemed to help clear his chest and head. He'd vowed not to smoke en route, because it always made him cough when his throat was sore, but he was going to have to have a cigarette before he put on his Hitler Youth togs for the journey. So he pushed away the bowl, smiled at Hannelore and Frau Witman, and excused himself.

LeBeau tagged after Peter as he wandered down the corridor to his sewing hut.

"You're ready for this?" LeBeau asked. "You took your aspirin?"

"Yes, and I've packed a few in my pocket," Peter said as he took off his jumper and undershirt and started pulling on the loathsome Jugend uniform. Still in his RAF trousers and with his shirttails hanging out, he lit a cigarette.

LeBeau's hand was on his forehead before Peter could inhale. "I don't care what Colonel Hogan says. You are warm."

"I j-just had soup, LeBeau," Peter replied with hint of a mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips. "It wwwarms a lad up. It was delicious by the way."

"Of course it was; I made it," LeBeau said, laughing himself now. "Stop changing the subject. When you get back here…"

"…I'm going straight to the cooler for my misdeeds and transgressions," Peter said. "I'll sleep it off, Louis. And look at the bright side—I'll be with a doctor!" He was changing out of his trousers and into his Hitler Youth shorts.

"Anja's not a doctor yet, but she knows more than you do," LeBeau snarked. "So you listen to her, _compris?_ I will make sure Colonel Hogan tells her."

"You just would, wouldn't you?" Peter grinned as he buttoned up. "Fffine. I'll do whatever she says. She's had some rather good ideas so far."

"Oh, she has, has she?" LeBeau shot back. "Don't forget your protection, Pierre."

"What?" Peter answered, momentarily confused until the meaning of LeBeau's words sank in. "Blimey, Louis. There wwwwwon't be any time for th-th-that. I'll be lucky if we have time for a k-k-k-kiss." He tipped his head to one side, momentarily looking even younger than his eighteen years. He sat down to pull on his knee socks.

"Take them anyway," LeBeau said, reaching into his pocket and handing over small envelope. "You should always have two to be safe."

Peter took what LeBeau handed him and stuck it in his pocket, but he was embarrassed. "I, I won't need them."

"Things happen fast. You need to be prepared. Even if you don't need them, the point is to get in the habit of having them when you're with her, because the day will come," LeBeau said.

Peter was hanging on his every word, his eyes wide with interest. "Will it?" he asked in complete sincerity. "You think it will happen?"

LeBeau smiled. "In time, yes. If not with Anja, then with someone else." But almost certainly with Anja, he said to himself.

"There is no one else, Louis," Peter said with absolute conviction.

**XXX**

The first leg of the journey wasn't difficult. They left through the emergency tunnel and rode in the back of Robin Redbreast's milk van, surrounded by clattering bottles and a slightly sour lingering scent of spilled milk as they rattled along on country roads toward Koblenz. Olsen, who was already out of camp in his role of outside man, rode along for the first leg of the journey, sitting beside Robin in the front seat and chatting quietly in German.

In the back seat, Hannelore and Peter sat side by side, playing a string game. Peter ran through his bag of tricks to entertain the girl. She could do a cat's cradle, a star, a witch's broom, and the Eiffel Tower. He taught her the cup and saucer, parachute, Jacob's ladder and one he'd come up with on his own called the fighter plane.

"In German, we call them _Fadenspiele_," Hannelore said. "Or _Hexenspiele_," she added with a mischievous flip of her hair.

"Ooh, 'witches games,' I like the sound of that," Peter said with a wink. "We just call them string figures in English," he added. "They're _jeux de ficelle_ in French, Louis says."

"Do you play them with him?"

"Sometimes, when I'm bored, he'll do it with me," Peter said. "But the other chaps make fun of me, like it's a kid's game. Except for Carter. He's keen to learn tricks."

"It's not just for kids! It's complicated and it requires a lot of ..." Hannelore searched for a word. "Dexterity!" she declared.

"That's true," Peter laughed. "And I need to keep my fingers in practice."

"Oh? Why? Do you play piano? I do," Hannelore said.

"Not exactly," Peter replied, fighting back a smirk. "I have certain mechanical skills necessary to our operation that require dexterity, as you say." There, he'd dodged that one. He didn't feel like explaining the nature of his skills-or why and how he'd acquired them-to a sweet girl like Hannelore. He wasn't even sure Anja would approve of his less reputable talents, and Anja was an adult, just like him, who understood that war demanded compromises.

Hannelore demonstrated the cat's cradle again. "_Das Abnehmespiel_," she said.

"Hmm. Cat's cradle sounds better, don't you think? _Katzenwiege_," Peter said. "In French, it's _la scie_ or 'the saw.' _Die Säge_."

"Cat's cradle," Hannelore repeated. "That's what Annie Laurie Whitman would call it," she grinned.

**XXX**

The milk van rattled over the cobblestones in a courtyard next to an old inn in Montabaur, on the north side of Koblenz. It was a busy place, if the number of cars parked out front was any indication. Robin Redbreast pulled around the back, to a kitchen entrance, which led to a servant's staircase to the upper levels. Olsen took the lead, and Peter waved the Witmans and Hannelore behind him, taking a moment to case the bushes and shadows for any observers. He was satisfied there were none, so he headed up the stairs while Robin busied himself unloading cases of milk for the helpful owners of the inn.

Two stories up, the family settled into an attic with bare walls, a pitched roof, and two metal bed frames with thin but serviceable mattresses. It was past eleven o'clock, and Hannelore looked exhausted as her father slipped off her overcoat and settled her onto one of the beds. "Sleep now, child," he said softly. "We have about an hour."

Hannelore nodded sleepily and fell asleep with her arms tucked under her head. Witman covered her with her overcoat, then folded up his jacket and tucked it under her head as a pillow.

Olsen and Peter stood in one corner, peering down the stairs and smoking.

"Grey Wolf will get you to Arzfeld," said Olsen, who had done this journey more than a few times. "Then he'll hand you off to…"

"…A _Maquisard_ named Arpège," Peter said. "Blimey, I thought their camps were all in the south."

"They've shifted," Olsen whispered. "They're working to delay the German mobilization to the coast. They're being hunted, you know. They operate in very small groups. No big concentrations, no fixed camps."

"Well, they know their way through the wwwoods, don't they," Peter remarked.

"They do. You're in good hands," Olsen said, patting Peter on the chest. "I'm sticking around until Colonel Hogan gets here. You should rest." He tipped his head toward Hannelore. "Your little friend was exhausted."

Peter looked at Hannelore and smiled. She was sleeping peacefully while her parents, sitting on the bed and holding hands, were talking almost nose to nose. He'd never seen his parents behave so affectionately, but he remembered his sisters and their callers sitting that way. It must be what love looks like, he thought.

"Thanks, mate, but I'm not tired," Peter replied in a distracted voice. In fact, the adrenaline buzz of a mission had kicked his system into alert mode and he was quite sure he couldn't have slept if he tried. But he did want a drink of something to soothe his throat, which still felt shredded. He'd drained his canteen on the first leg of the journey.

"Where could we get some water?" he asked Olsen.

"I'll go," Olsen said. "They know me. Watch the door."

Ten minutes later, Olsen was back with large bottles of water and a bag of apples, which he passed around to Peter and the Witmans. Frau Witman put one aside for Hannelore to have later.

Forty minutes after that, headlamps illuminated the back of the courtyard and blinked three times before being extinguished. Peter peered out the window and smiled. He was pretty sure he knew that motor car. There was plenty of room for a driver and six passengers. It was the Adler Standard 8 that belonged to Snowy Owl and White Dove, out for a late night drive.

Robin Redbreast had remained in his milk van, "on break," if anyone had the nerve to ask why a milkman was sitting alone in his vehicle after midnight. He emerged and led Colonel Hogan and Anja to the back doorway, then rattled off into the night, milk bottles clinking.

Anja was the first through the door, and her eyes lit on Peter. She was dressed in the uniform of a women's auxiliary member, and she smiled at him, her eyelashes fluttering in a teasing way, her head tipping invitingly to one side. Even in dull grey, with her hair swept up in a severe bun, she looked beautiful to him.

She must have been driving, Peter realized. One tendril of her hair hung loose over her right ear, and he longed to touch it, to tuck it back for her. He walked to her tentatively, acutely aware of all the eyes that were watching them, and then threw caution to the wind, sweeping her up and twirling her around joyfully. It had been two days since he saw her on the mission to arrest Monck, since he'd held her on his lap and felt the surge of passion, and it was much too long to be apart.

* * *

**The milkman who goes by the code name Robin Redbreast was introduced in chapter 9 of my story "**_**Done Talking**_**." He is an injured WWI veteran who drives through the night for the Underground while making dairy deliveries to restaurants and schools and then to homes. The Maquis are the French resistance fighters who hid in the mountains and woods and performed guerilla raids against German targets. A member of the Maquis is a **_**Maquisard**_**.**


	20. Chapter 19: Checkpoint Charlies

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 19: CHECKPOINT CHARLIES**

**MARCH 31, 1944**

"Alright, settle down, you two." There was no criticism in Colonel Hogan's voice—just the gentle insistence of a man on a mission.

Peter was thrilled to see Anja, but he got the Colonel's message: They were here on business. So he set her down on her feet, clasped her hand, and halfway held his breath as he attentively observed his CO. He was hoping he wouldn't get "a look," or "a word," or worse. Instead, he got a wink, which gave him the courage to breathe and to plaster a kiss on Anja's cheek before letting her go.

"Where's Olsen? Did he leave?" Peter asked.

"He's waiting in the car with Grey Wolf, and looking after someone," Hogan said. He cast a look at Herr Witman and nodded his head. Peter wasn't sure what that meant, but he saw the tightness around Witman's eyes vanish as a warm smile crossed his face.

"Everyone, listen up. Grey Wolf will be driving the next leg. You understand that fuel is at a premium, and we have to stick carefully to our story to justify why we're driving late at night," Hogan said. "I'll be in the front seat with Grey Wolf. Peter, you're on lookout on the driver side in the center row, and Herr Witman, you're with him, directly behind me. The ladies will be in the back row, except… Hannelore, it'll be tight, but you can sit between Peter and your father."

Hannelore had woken up and was stretching. She nodded sleepily. Peter looked confused. That left only Anja and Frau Witman in the back seat, where it was roomier. Hogan noticed Peter's expression and acknowledged it with a subtle tip of the head. Peter still wasn't sure what that meant as Hogan led them all down the narrow staircase and out to the vehicle.

Peter opened the back door of the motor car on the driver side to let the ladies inside when he got his answer. There, in the back row, sat a small woman with bright eyes, a full head of white hair, and a small dog on her lap. Hannelore pushed her way past him.

"Oma!" she began to shout as she scrambled into the car. Peter clamped a hand over her mouth and held her back by the shoulder.

"Shh, shh," he said, bending down to whisper into her ear. "Quietly."

She nodded and twisted out of his grasp, climbing into the back row to hug her grandmother and Snuffy.

**XXX**

Hannelore was going to sit with Peter, but her grandmother's arrival changed that. Instead Anja moved into the seat next to him so Hannelore could snuggle with her beloved Oma. Hogan came around to the window on the side where Peter was sitting and rapped, signaling for him to roll it down. He leaned in and whispered a few words in Peter's ear. Peter nodded. Yes, he knew he needed to avoid distractions. One look at Anja confirmed that she understood too. Apparently she and Colonel Hogan had spoken.

They drove into the night. Hannelore and her grandmother chattered happily in the back seat and Snuffy gave a few little yips whenever another vehicle passed them or the shadows played tricks. It was an odd scene, an old lady and a young girl cuddling and petting a scrappy dog in the midst of a risky, clandestine mission. Peter caught Anja's eye; they smiled. Both knew that this domestic simplicity, a family's love, was exactly what they were fighting to protect.

They trundled down the road for half an hour before they reached their first military checkpoint. Grey Wolf, dressed as a livery driver, stopped the car and presented his credentials to an Army officer. Colonel Hogan stepped out of the vehicle with an air of authority. Dressed in his Gestapo plainclothes, he moved with the haughty air of a man who knew he was above reproach. He strode toward the young officer at the checkpoint and took charge of explaining everyone's documents.

"You will find everything in order, I assure you, _Herr Oberleutnant_," Hogan said.

"Why are you traveling so late at night?" the officer asked.

"Professor Witman has been summoned with great haste to Brussels, following—well, I am not at liberty to say, except that there was a very sudden vacancy within the royal household." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I couldn't possibly say in front of the children, but …" He cut his eyes toward the back seat and made a slashing motion at his neck.

The officer could not hide his look of shock, but in a moment, he was back to business, shuffling through papers. "Tutor to the royal household, I see," he said with astonishment. "How many royal children are there?"

"Three," Hogan said. "Ranging in age from nine to sixteen."

He gestured at Peter and Anja. "And I suppose the children are coming because…"

"To show them, of course," Peter said arrogantly. "They need to understand that a young German is as swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather, and as hard as Krupp's steel."

The officer smiled at the cheerful prospect of a German boy intimidating the royal family of Belgium. He leaned in the window and looked at Peter and Anja.

"You two. How old are you?" he asked.

"Sixteen, Herr Oberleutnant," Peter replied. "The same age as Princess Josephine. She's the eldest," he sneered.

"I'll be fifteen next month, Herr Oberleutnant," Anja added.

"And I'm thirteen," Hannelore piped up from the back seat.

"I see. You are very small compared to your brother and sister," the officer observed.

"Not for long," Anja said coyly, fluttering her eyes at the guard. "I was the same just two years ago." She arched her back forward, showing off her curves.

"Hmm. Carry on," the officer said with the hint of a smile, waving at them to go. He turned to speak to another officer as the driver re-engaged the ignition and prepared to leave. He hadn't gone ten meters down the road when someone rapped hard with a rifle butt on the side of the car. Everyone's blood froze. It was the Oberleutnant; he had run to catch up with the vehicle.

Grey Wolf contemplated hitting the gas, but Papa Bear tapped his arm and shook his head. No, stop, he signaled. He knew their paperwork was pristine. Grey Wolf rolled down the window, and the officer stuck his head in and peered into the center row.

"Boy, step out here for a moment," he commanded.

Peter looked at Colonel Hogan, masking his terror with great effort. He knew it; he'd padded his part and overplayed the role of self-important youth. Hogan raised an eyebrow, and Peter knew it meant "go with the flow."

Peter's mind flashed back, improbably, to a lesson he'd learned during religion class at school, the story of Abraham and Isaac. How old was he? Seven? Eight? He remembered how Isaac helped his father gather the wood for the altar, and then asked, in total innocence, "Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?"

He remembered his own shock when he realized: _Isaac, mate, it turns out you're the lamb._

So, it seemed, was Peter.

_Some father you are, Abraham, _he'd thought at the time. But like Isaac, Peter never had a doubt that his_ real_ father—which Hogan was to him, in every sense of the word but blood—would think of something as soon as he sized up the situation. So he said a silent prayer, unlatched the door, and stepped outside to offer himself up.

Peter stood before the Oberleutnant, bracing to be handcuffed or manhandled.

Instead, the Oberleutnant threw an arm around the young boy in his Hitler Youth uniform and laughed. "I want you to meet my friend Oberleutnant Zweig," he said, leading him away from the car. "Moritz!" he called out as he dragged Peter toward a guard post. "This is the boy."

"Ah, the cream of German youth," Zweig said as he emerged with a cigarette. He saw Peter eyeing it hungrily. "Do you smoke?"

What was going on? Were they mocking him? Peter hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the car, hoping for answers. What would an arrogant Hitler Youth member do? Hogan by now had stepped out of the car. He nodded, and Peter trusted that nod. So he turned and looked at Zweig and smiled with all the cool confidence he could muster.

"Every chance I get," he replied, accepting a cigarette and allowing Zweig to light it. He had no idea whether he had walked into a trap or not. If he hadn't, he decided, the cigarette could do no harm. And if he had, he deserved a bleeding fag before he met his maker.

The soldiers were patting him on the back like a pair of overgrown schoolboys and offering humorous advice on how he might consider demonstrating German superiority to various members of the Belgian royal family, particularly the sixteen-year-old princess. Papa Bear, in his black Gestapo suit, now walked toward them, relieved that there was nothing to worry about.

"Gentlemen! Is everything alright?" he called.

"Yes, yes, we just don't meet a feisty son of the Fatherland like this one every day," the first Oberleutnant said. He turned back to Peter. "Tell him again," he said, elbowing Peter.

"As swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather, and as hard as Krupp's steel," Peter repeated dramatically for the third time for Zweig's benefit.

"Make sure you tell the princess about the steel," Zweig said with a laugh.

Hogan shook his head imperceptibly. These guys had been at their post much too long. "Well, I hate to break up the party, but we must be on our way. Arno, is that a cigarette in your hand?" He winked at the soldiers, who laughed flippantly.

"Yes," 'Arno' admitted sheepishly. "Sorry, Herr Bertman." Although he longed for just a little more time with it, he dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, then gazed conspiratorially at the soldiers, smirking. He shook the hands of each of the Oberleutnants, and they slapped him on the back cheerfully as he returned to the car, shouting after him, "Give 'em hell, Arno!"

Peter returned jauntily to the car, took his place in the back seat, and smile raffishly through the window at his new friends. Then, once they were safely away, he slumped and exhaled. "Bloody hell. What was that?"

"You obviously impressed them," Hogan said. "That was quite a line you came up with."

"Hitler said it first," Peter said.

Hannelore piped up again from the back seat and poked Anja on the shoulder. "You started it. You were flirting with that soldier," she said, pushing out her chest and pouting in a perfect imitation of Anja's come-hither move.

Anja bopped Hannelore on the head with her hand. "Me, flirting? What about Peter?" she said with a laugh, then turned to her boyfriend. "Honestly, Peter, 'hard as Krupp's steel'?"

Peter held out his hands helplessly. "Like I said, Hitler said it, not me." He was still trying to breathe normally. "Blimey, they're a right pair of Charlies, and they still scared the wits out of me."

Anja laid a hand on Peter's knee and squeezed it reassuringly; he covered it with his own hand, holding it there. Being this close to her and not being able to kiss her and caress her was difficult, but the mission was too important for them to get lost in a moment of their own. He squeezed her hand back, and then let it go.

"Anyway, Hannelore, I was only trying to distract him from _you_," Anja said as kindly as she could. "Don't volunteer information, alright?" she said. "You have to stay quiet as a lamb at these checkpoints."

"It's not a game, Hannelore," Peter added gently. "Until you're in England, you have to think like a spy, alright? Eyes open and mouth closed unless you know exactly what you're supposed to say." He turned to look at her and saw she was bug-eyed with fear, so he reached a hand back to squeeze hers. "It's going to be fine," he said.

"Can I sit with Peter now?" Hannelore asked. Anja and Frau Witman both nodded, and even though the vehicle was in motion, the girls climbed out of their seats and switched places. Hannelore leaned into Peter's right side, and he wrapped an arm around her. Gradually, as the car hummed along the dark road, she drifted to sleep.

* * *

**"A right pair of Charlies" means "a couple of idiots."**


	21. Chapter 20: The Abbey

**PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 20: THE ABBEY**

One hour and two more checkpoints later, they had connected at the edge of the Ardennes Forest with Arpège, the French resistance fighter.

Grey Wolf motored off into the night as Arpège led them on foot off the main road and onto a trail that would lead them to a hillside village. Dawn was still hours away, and the moonlit trail was rugged.

Arpège led the way, with Frau Witman and Hannelore directly behind him, taking turns bearing a dimly lit lantern and holding Snuffy. Colonel Hogan and Herr Witman followed behind, carrying Grandmother in a two-handed seat carry, stepping along slowly and carefully. Anja came next with a lantern. Peter brought up the rear, his weapon drawn, surveying the woods as they went and looking over his shoulder at strategic intervals.

Halfway there, they were met by another _Maquisard_, Marcel, who took over from Colonel Hogan, freeing him to drop back and confer with his team. Hogan stood for a moment, waiting for Peter and Anja to catch up with him. As they approached, he heard a series of muffled sneezes. It was Anja. Peter followed behind her, clearing his throat in an effort to suppress a cough.

_They're getting sick_, Hogan thought. It wasn't surprising. They'd both been running ragged for eleven days since the troubles with the Hammelburg Underground cell first surfaced.

"Try not to sneeze," Hogan whispered as Anja caught up to him.

"You know that's unhealthy, don't you?" she said irritably. "When you suppress a sneeze it can cause damage to the ear drums."

"Yes, Doctor," Hogan said patiently. "But the other thing that's unhealthy is giving your location away and walking into the enemy's arms. If you pinch yourself on the lip or between your eyes or on the bridge of your nose, may be able to cut it off. At least it will be quieter."

"Understood, Sir," Peter said. He nodded at Anja, who got the hint and echoed his words: "Yes, Papa Bear."

As they traipsed along, they heard horses softly whinnying and they knew their transportation was at hand. They emerged from the woods into a narrow clearing and clambered into two wagons. Marcel drove one, with Hogan and the three elder Witmans on board; Arpège took the reins of the other one, with Peter, Anja, Hannelore and Snuffy as his passengers—and rattled down a dirt road. There was nothing in the area of even the slightest military significance, and therefore patrol coverage was light. Arpège and Marcel traced military movements constantly; it would be at least two hours before one showed up here.

The night had started out clear, but as dawn approached and they passed through the Ardennes, a light rain began to fall. Eventually, as they clopped along, a sprawling, squat Romanesque building with a spire loomed in front of them. Behind it, the sun was perched on the horizon, and the sky was draped with orange and yellow streaks.

Arpège slowed his pair of horses to a walk and turned to his young passengers. "That is the _Abbaye de Floreffe_," he said softly. "You will go through the north transept. Walk to the left toward the choir stalls. Stay there until your driver fetches you. It will be at least an hour. You'll hear a signal—two short whistles, then a long one. You'll respond with three short, one long."

"And Papa Bear knows?" Peter asked.

"He's instructing the others now," Arpège said, gesturing to the four people in the other wagon. "Marcel is leaving, but I will stay with you until our contact arrives."

"Is the Abbey abandoned?" Anja asked.

"Yes. The Abbots were taken east months ago, to a camp," Arpège said somberly, practically spitting the last word as he slowed his horses' gait. "There's a caretaker on the grounds, but he's harmless, and you'll be warm and dry inside."

From his seat in the wagon, Peter looked up with curiosity as the front of the abbey loomed before them, with wide stairs leading to square doors. Above the doors, a semi-circle stone carving showed saints and angels gathered around Jesus. The horses clip-clopped around to the side of the building, and the travelers disembarked in front of a much plainer entrance, a wide doorway surmounted by a rounded arch. They pushed open the oak door and piled inside.

The flutter of wings startled them as they moved toward the choir stalls.

"Bloody pigeons," Peter said as he jumped back in surprise, making Hannelore titter with laughter.

Anja elbowed him. "Peter! Don't swear in church!"

"Yes, Peter, listen to your girlfriend," Hannelore said mockingly.

"That's enough, children," Hogan said pointedly as the came up on the trio. "Quiet down. Newkirk, see if you can find a reasonably clean space where the ladies can rest." He looked over his shoulder. "Especially the grandmother." For an 81-year-old woman, she was doing remarkably well, but the strains of a long night were showing. Herr Witman had put down his coat on a pew, where she was perched, but her hand was on the back of her waist, underscoring her discomfort.

Newkirk did as he was told, and a few minutes later, the ladies of the party occupied cleaned-up seats in the choir staff and he had pried loose a kneeler from a pew to serve as the old woman's foot rest. Anja, however, refused to rest. She shadowed Colonel Hogan, who was guarding the door they'd entered, watching out for a vehicle.

Eventually Herr Witman took a seat beside his wife. He wasn't a saboteur or a soldier; he was a teacher and a youth leader whose qualifications for the Underground had everything to do with his brain—and his position—and nothing whatsoever to do with fitness. Fortunately, he was healthy and trim for a man of his age, but at the moment he was dead on his feet.

Peter was standing guard over the small group, watching as the Witmans slouched and slumbered, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned; it was Arpège.

"You are tired. Rest," he said firmly.

"I can't," Peter said, and then suddenly began to cough. From across the choir, he could see movement as Hogan and Anja's heads pivoted toward him; Arpège patted him on the back and handed him a canteen.

"Drink," the Maquisard commanded.

Peter obeyed, and the water eased the tickle in his throat, but not the heaviness in his limbs.

"Sit down," Arpège said as he reclaimed the canteen.

Peter waved a hand in his direction. "I've been sitting for hours, and I'll sit in the motor car," he told Arpège. "For now, I should stand watch."

Suddenly he heard a signal from Colonel Hogan—a low whistle that he knew meant "silence." He laid a hand on Arpège's arm and moved into a shadow.

Hogan had waved Anja back from the doorway. He was peering through it intently and Peter, Anja, Herr and Frau Witman and Arpège suddenly knew why. As silence descended in their corner of the abbey, over the soft snores of Oma and Hannelore, they heard heavy footsteps and a series of barks.

Snuffy was on his feet at once, yipping in reply, which in turn woke Oma and Hannelore. "Quiet, Snuffy," Hannelore said plain as day.

At that, the door swung open and a man held up a lantern. "Who's in here?" he demanded.


End file.
